Consent
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: Sherlock has a difficult past regarding sex which John discovers when he tries to change their relationship. Written for kinkmeme prompt. Read warnings and the full prompt inside before reading please.
1. Chapter 1

Kinkmeme prompt:

Sherlock has an extremely difficult past regarding sex. It might have been ongoing sexual abuse, a rape, an abusive relationship, or all of the above (it can be explored in detail or not). Because of it, his solution has been to remain celibate for 15-20 years. Now, in love with John, he is trying to give sex another try.

I want to see John being slow, being attentive. I want Sherlock to have to learn to put a stop to things when he can't handle it. I want to to see failed attempts, angst, misunderstandings and no magical session that fixes everything. I want there to be certain things (positions, places on his body, etc) that Sherlock realizes he'll never be able to handle.

I want angst, angst, aborted sex, hurt, comfort, and more angst

* * *

Author's Note

I am in danger of losing the page for this so I thought I'd better post what I'd done already on here to keep it safe! New policy on writing fics - they all come when they come so updates may be skewed to certain fics depending on my mood.

Also, on a personal and rather childish note - look! Sherlock whump! John's free! (ish...)

* * *

**Warnings - Read!**

Mentions of rape/non-con sex and the results of this. Emotional and sexual abuse of someone 16-19 so, depending on your laws, under-age. This story focuses on the difficulty of getting over certain triggers and memories so be aware this might get uncomfortable at times and will be frank about the reactions of someone dealing with this.

* * *

Chapter One

There was a long pause when John pulled back from the kiss. Sherlock was staring at him as if he'd just announced that he wanted to give up crime solving in London and try goat herding in Wales.

Sherlock said nothing and the silence pinned John to the spot like nothing else.

It really wasn't meant to happen this way!

Sherlock's lips were wet and bright from the kiss but his eyes remained thoughtful, narrowed in speculation. There were no scathing remarks (which John had been fully prepared for) and yet there seemed to be no indication that Sherlock was going to lean forward and continue the kiss again (which John had been desperately hoping for).

"Thoughts?" John asked, stepping back again to give Sherlock space.

"Many," Sherlock replied still looking John up and down.

Okay…

"Well…if you feel like sharing any of them…" John prompted.

Drawing in a breath, Sherlock stepped away, clasping his hands behind his back and looking to the window.

"You are attracted to me."

There was no question in his voice and John nodded slowly and then frowned, "It's…no problem." His voice caught awkwardly and John cleared his throat. "I mean…I can not be attracted to you."

Sherlock said nothing.

"I just thought I'd um…check." John nodded at the choice of phrase. "Nothing ventured and all that."

Still nothing.

"But it's fine. Really. I um…we're good friends and I…that's more important. So…we'll um-"

"You're rambling."

God, he was. Nodding at that John shook himself. "Tea?"

Tea?

But Sherlock nodded, one sharp movement of his head that made John turn on his heel, leaving Sherlock to his reflections. And the act of making tea, washing up cups and rolling his eyes at the state of the sugar was calming.

"Would you require sex?"

John nearly dropped the tea. "I…" he put the cups down and turned to Sherlock who looked as if he hadn't moved throughout the tea making process. "I enjoy sex," he finished not really sure what Sherlock was asking. "Do you not?"

"I have orgasmed with a partner."

John turned back to the tea and picked them up, feeling more prepared this time and having the feeling that he needed something in his hands for this conversation. "That was not what I asked," he said firmly, walking over to Sherlock and offering the mug.

Sherlock accepted it, eyes following John's movements carefully, seemingly waiting for further clarification.

Sitting. Sitting would help. "Do you…feel sexual urges, desires?" he asked trying to keep his tone casual and his phrasing accurate.

"Yes."

Something lodged at the back of John's throat. "Do you…Do you laugh during sex?"

"Laugh?" Sherlock sounded perplexed by the idea.

John rested an elbow on the arm of the chair, rubbing at his eyes with his fingers and thumb.

"Ask," Sherlock ordered in a very dangerous voice.

"Have you had consensual sex?" John asked, not moving.

"Define consensual."

John barely resisted the urge to let out a frustrated snarl, his thoughts scrambling in a million different directions at the possibilities that were being raised. There were selfish murmurs in his head – ones that balked at the idea that he had pounced on a rape victim, a traitorous one that felt slightly disappointed by how the conversation was going. There was a Sherlock-esque voice berating him for not seeing it earlier as his mind scanned through their time together, throwing up anomalies that he should have spotted.

"Define it for me," John said dropping his hand from his face to look up at Sherlock. "Tell me what sex is."

"Power," Sherlock said without hesitation. "An exercise in power."

"Do you really believe that?" John asked quietly.

"Are you going to tell me it's about love?" Sherlock asked mockingly. "That people who meet one night and fuck are somehow expressing love at first sight?"

John shook his head, "No," he said simply. "Sex is never that easy to explain."

Sherlock's brows furrowed and he looked away then at his hand suddenly, as if surprised to see the mug there.

John sat and sipped his tea.

Sherlock didn't stop looking confused.

The look didn't suit him.

* * *

John had been kidnapped.

Again.

This time there was the small mercy that he had been able to slip his bonds and deck the guard. Then had managed to deal with the one that came looking afterwards.

The sounds of shots being fired had prompted John to glanced out the tiny window and roll his eyes at the sight of the police squad on their way in and at Sherlock being pulled back by a DI John was unfamiliar with.

There was no point in adding to the situation; John had seen enough rescue attempts to know that friendly fire was a risk as was reminding kidnappers of their hostage at moments of stress.

Best really just to let them get on with it.

When Sherlock walked in five minutes later, John was sat reading the paper (god help him it was the Mail, but it had at least made for an entertaining read).

"You could have come met me at the entrance," Sherlock muttered petulantly.

"You were fine," John said folding up the paper. "I watched."

There was a strange look on Sherlock's face as if he couldn't decide to be pleased with John's nonchalance or annoyed. "He hit you," he said, poking at a guard with a toe.

"And I hit him back. Repeatedly." John shrugged as he stood, wincing at the slight stiffness in his shoulder. "You okay?"

Sherlock nodded, clearly distracted. "You were bound?"

"Yeah, not very well," John added. "So, we off?"

* * *

All he wanted was a shower and bed. Even food could wait.

But as he turned to continue up the stairs, Sherlock reached out and grabbed at his wrist.

"What the-" John asked, turning back.

The step meant that he was fractionally taller than Sherlock for the first time ever. The kiss was clumsy, too wet and too desperate, but it was Sherlock. Sherlock pushing against him, pulling him closer. Sherlock kissing as if he wanted to climb inside John and never leave.

They pulled away slowly, Sherlock gripping his jacket tightly and John running a soothing hand along Sherlock's coat covered back.

"How do you define sex," Sherlock said suddenly, face determined.

John looked over his head, at the room through the doorway where they had last had this conversation.

"Terrifying," he shrugged, "Uh…exhilarating. Slow, fast, rough, smooth. Awkward…" he grinned, "Usually awkward at first. It's the fun. You explore and discover-"

Sherlock, looking a little bemused by the list, suddenly perked up. "Explore?"

"Well, you sort of need to know what your partner likes. What you like." John licked at his lips. "And what your partner dislikes."

Sherlock's expression closed off a little and he stepped back, releasing John's jacket and leaving wrinkled marks.

"Like," John sighed and sat down on the steps. "I don't like anyone sitting on my leg. Stupid, but I can't stand it." He looked up at Sherlock and saw the curiosity there. "Did myself out of quite a few massages I can tell you."

"The limp," Sherlock stepped closer, "It reminded you of the limp."

John nodded. "And er…I don't do military kinks. Seems wrong in some ways to me. You know, mixing work with pleasure."

Sherlock didn't look that surprised. "What else?" he asked.

What else? John racked his brains for anything at all. "I had a few…encounters at university and while training. You know, burning off stress. Anyway there were some friends that, you know… went the whole hog with the kinky stuff and would report back or insist on having a few parties…"

Sherlock nodded.

"Pain puts me off completely. It's not that I can't cope with it but I've been in pain too much to equate it with pleasure. No leather in the bedroom at all. The smell it…just no." John took a long breath.

"What do you enjoy?"

There was a great deal of good old-fashioned curiosity there. No fear or judgement at all.

"You kind of have to learn that," John said frankly. "Part of the fun."

Sherlock stared down at him, face utterly unreadable in the fading light.

"Fun?" he echoed.

John nodded, tired and unsure as to how this conversation was going.

"Have a shower," Sherlock suddenly ordered and turned away.

Right.

* * *

The next day John was ready to bang his head against the wall repeatedly. Sherlock was hovering and wouldn't stop staring at him thoughtfully as if he was debating some epic experiment.

"My Uncle by marriage," Sherlock said suddenly that evening.

"Mm?" John asked tapping at the laptop, his latest attempt to cope with the continuous stares.

Wait…

John looked up suddenly, feeling his neck protest at the sudden movement. "Your Uncle?"

Sherlock nodded. "Repeatedly."

John closed the lid slowly, trying not to let himself react without knowing more. "For how long?"

"Three years," Sherlock seemed to be reading every twitch that John gave.

Three years? Three whole years?

"How…" John cleared his throat, "How old were you at the time?"

"Sixteen." Sherlock voice cracked like a whip, "He wasn't a paedophile John."

John shook his head, "Still young," he muttered, unsure whether Sherlock was defending the man or simply pointing out the fact.

"It is the legal age of consent," Sherlock almost sounded amused by the idea. "Though can you ever have informed consent the first time you engage in sex?"

Probably not. It was why it was meant to be teenagers who were naively exploring each other for the first time rather than an adult taking advantage of that lack of experience. A million different questions batted at John's mind but he hesitated, unsure how to ask half of them without sounding as if he were blaming Sherlock. Questions like 'how did it stop', 'did anyone find out?', 'what did he have over you at that age?'

"You said," John scrabbled for thought, "You said you moved out young. Did he follow you or-"

"No. I visited him." Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "As a teenager I was adrift in the world. Lost. He was interested. He didn't dismiss me. The price was sex."

God almighty. The idea that Sherlock had been so lonely at that age, so desperate for companionship that he thought that to be an acceptable trade tore at something inside John.

"What happened?" he asked hoarsely.

Sherlock looked at him curiously, "In the end?"

John nodded.

"Mycroft," Sherlock sounded unimpressed. "His secretary told him."

"She knew?"

"She looked," Sherlock's voice wavered slightly.

_You see but you do not observe_.

"After that I started taking drugs. I was lost again and reluctant to get into a similar situation again."

Scared suddenly, John leaned forward. "This…Sherlock please. Do not think this is the same."

Sherlock stared.

"I am…you have given me so much. Life, fun, purpose. Even danger," John attempted a weak smile. "I would never expect anything else from you. We're friends. Never feel as if you have to do anything in return."

"What…" Sherlock seemed to be startled at the idea. "What if I wanted to?"

"Then that would be…" what? Great, good? Any of those words would imply that the opposite would be bad. "Something we would have to discuss."

"Such as?"

"I…have no idea." John confessed. "We have questions for each other I suppose-"

"Yes." Sherlock stood. "I assume you will need to know about my dislikes as well?"

Want to know? God, no. Need to know? Yes.

"You're probably jumping ahead," John said keeping a careful eye on Sherlock.

"I am not fragile," Sherlock hissed.

"Go on then," John gestured with a hand.

Sherlock faltered.

"How tempted are you to say everything?" John asked, standing up wearily. "This isn't a race Sherlock. It's not a competition. No winning or losing." He walked to the door. "Think about what you want, whether you really want it and whether it's worth it because at the moment I'm not sure this isn't anything more than you trying to prove to yourself that you're not weak."

Then John winced at the words and turned, "And for the record, you're not. Weak. I've seen you at scenes that must remind you of what happened to you and you don't even flinch. You've let me and others into your life despite the mind fuck your Uncle must have done on your head all those years ago. You don't need to prove anything."

Sherlock looked away and John resigned himself to yet another day of staring.

* * *

Apologies to anyone waiting for updates on the other stories - my muse/writing has gone nuts. OFP is demanding to be written backards, OSF needs an inbetween chapter before I can post and when writing NatS I went a bit mad and now need to redo the chapter and it's like wading through a tangled knot.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

A day might have been optimistic. Two weeks later Sherlock was still staring at John thoughtfully during certain moments.

"What's up with him?" Lestrade asked with some trepidation. "It's like he's only half here at the moment."

John shrugged.

"He hasn't killed anyone, has he?" Lestrade joked.

John shook his head and Lestrade seemed to get the hint.

* * *

The thing that John had learned very quickly after he moved in with Sherlock was that his flatmate worked at his own pace. Sometimes that means he was blazing on ahead, leaving the rest of the world to sneeze at the sudden dust trail, other days it meant John would watch as Sherlock turned part teenager and made as much progress a particularly lazy slug, flopping onto sofas and watching television that even John found mind numbingly inane.

The point was that if you tried to slow him down or speed him up, Sherlock would simply dig his heels in stubbornly ignoring any and all advice.

So John, despite the fact that something deep within urged him to reassure Sherlock, wanted to coax him out and soothe him, simply let Sherlock work through whatever was in his head.

Even if it was now five weeks since their last conversation about the matter.

"I haven't changed my mind," John said one day into the silence as Sherlock played mad scientist with test tubes that were only shaped like they were for dramatic effect. "About…us. Just to let you know."

"I know," Sherlock looked up, seeming confused by the sudden conversation. "It's obvious."

"Okay, well. I thought I'd let you know; five weeks seems to be a good gap."

"Five weeks? Has it been that long?" Sherlock blinked over at the calendar.

John smiled down at his blog, shaking his head. "Only for us mortals," he said tapping at the keys again.

"This does not count as further evidence of my 'ignorance'," Sherlock said hastily, clearly catching sight of the screen. "Time is of little importance when considering a puzzle."

"You haven't had a case in three days," John muttered as he typed up their latest. "Unless you're referring to the great case of the 'suspicious lack of milk every time I want a cuppa'?"

"No. Just you."

"Me?" John almost yelped, turning awkwardly enough that his back sung in protest. "Why? What have I done?"

"You honestly do pick the worst times to have these discussions," Sherlock said with a lingering, almost longing look at his tubes before he stood and walked over.

Really? From the man who thought cackling with glee over a serial strangler was a good idea when the boyfriend was still sitting on the sofa.

Then Sherlock was stood in front of John, eying him up with the same focus and attention he'd given to the test tubes earlier.

It was like being dragged into the head teacher's office all over again.

"I haven't done anything," John pointed out slowly.

"I am considering ways of convincing you that this is nothing like my previous sexual encounter."

John replayed the sentence in his head, mind trying to follow. "Oh."

"But," Sherlock tilted his head, "This isn't really my area. I seem to have very few ideas."

"Right," John looked down at the laptop, then back up again. "Why are you doing this again?"

"You appear to be labouring under the misapprehension that I feel you are owed sex for being my…colleague."

One day they would build a time machine and John would beg, borrow and steal to go back to that stupid slip of the tongue. "Friend," he corrected wearily.

"Whichever," Sherlock said. John nearly repressed a smile at that. "I am no longer a young adult, making reckless, uninformed decisions. I am more than capable of spotting a manipulation, especially one that you are incapable of creating."

John pulled a face.

"Because you are far too moralistic to execute such a plot, not because you are too thick to conceive such a thing," Sherlock clarified.

"I assume there's a compliment hidden in that," John rubbed at his eyes.

"Possibly."

The dry tone made John smile as he looked back up. Sherlock looked…nervous.

"Promise?" John asked finally, "Promise me you'll stop or ask me to slow down if you need to."

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said, a little too quickly for John's liking.

"I mean it," John said firmly, "I'm trusting you here."

Sherlock looked a little intrigued at the idea, "Trusting me?"

"To say no. To not make this into something…I can only trust what you tell me Sherlock. I'm not you, I can't see the inner workings of your mind. I need you to be honest otherwise we'll tear each other to shreds with second guessing each other and feeling pressure."

So John wasn't above a little manipulation. But he could see Sherlock latch on to the idea, adjust and almost preen at the idea that he needed to be careful with John as well.

It broke John's heart just a little that Sherlock still saw it as an exchange of sorts.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, his chin lifting the way it did when he faced down an officer.

No, far too clinical. John looked back over his shoulder at the experiments. "Finish what you were doing," he said softly. "No rush."

That confused Sherlock. He looked between the table and John, clearly unsure as to what he should do.

"I am offering you sex," Sherlock clarified, as if John was too thick to understand the earlier offer.

"I know," John nodded. "But you haven't eaten all day, you're still doing that…" he looked back again and frowned at the acids on the table. "Which you should probably keep an eye on in case it burns through the table and we lose the last 90p of our deposit. Plus Molly called half an hour ago with the severed hand they found. You have things to do."

"Do you not want sex?"

"I'm not a flaming button," John muttered glaring down at the screen. "It takes a little more than, 'John let's go have sex'."

The moment he saw Sherlock kneel down in his peripheral vision he realised he'd made some sort of mistake.

A hand crept up his trouser leg and a mouth licked at his bare ankle. The sensation went straight to his cock even as his mind reared at the image that must be beyond the laptop screen; Sherlock on his knees, kissing at his feet.

Or ankle. Same difference.

"I…" What was he meant to say to this? Sherlock didn't seem willing to take a refusal and yet this seemed so wrong, so forced. Sherlock's lips traced further up, pushing at the hem of his jeans as far as it would go while his hand started tracing John's thighs.

Forced, trained.

Trained.

The words made him flinch as it raced around his head.

How the hell was he meant to stop Sherlock without saying no?

Thankfully (in retrospect) Sherlock traced his other hand under John's jeans, up and up the calf, scratching a little at the flesh.

The slight pain, the constriction of the jeans; both were enough to send John scrambling away, despising the sensation of pressure on the leg. His own hands smoothed over the limb, reassuring his ridiculous brain that nothing had happened, that it didn't mean the phantom pain was returning along with the hated cane.

Sherlock, when he looked over, was pale with shock.

"You'd never forget that," John said raggedly, trying not to be such a complete girl. "If that move had been natural, you'd never have done that."

As if dazed, Sherlock stared down at his fingers, flexing them with a baffled, lost expression.

John eased himself onto the floor next to Sherlock, hoping to God he was about to do the right thing. "Want to see?" he asked gesturing to his leg.

Sherlock gazed at it and then up at John's shoulder. "You'd let me?" he asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Right, stripping off his jeans might be a step too far at the moment. But his top would be fine. John nodded and then pulled his jumper over his head.

The fascination this time was completely natural. The head tilt, the frown. The way Sherlock suddenly moved up onto his knees again to manoeuvre himself around John pushing his shoulder back and forth gently.

The prod was not appreciated and John poked Sherlock straight back in displeasure, which earned him the faintest smile.

Then Sherlock pressed a kiss to the marred flesh. Then another a little closer to John's throat.

It was good. A relief and a comfort. John dipped his head a little, finding his way to Sherlock's lips. The kiss was careful and sweet and Sherlock's hand traced the scar as his other hand slid along John's back aimlessly.

Keeping clothes as a barrier seemed like a good idea. John smoothed his hand along Sherlock's shirt covered torso, careful not to touch skin or slip his hand underneath anything. Against his lips Sherlock let lose the smallest groan and John felt himself smile into the kiss.

More.

He moved his lips down, over that bloody stubborn long chin, underneath to the soft, vulnerable skin of the throat. How the hell was it so bloody perfect?

"God, you taste amazing," John murmured, licking the dip of Sherlock's collarbone.

Sherlock stiffened.

Shit.

John pulled his mouth away but kept his head under Sherlock's chin, trying to give him the position of power.

"I have the experiment," Sherlock announced suddenly.

"Right," John pulled back, watching as Sherlock yanked himself to his feet in a series of sharp, angry motions that made John want to pull him back down and stroke him to relax.

Feeling stupid, John pulled his jumper back on. Sherlock lasted about two minutes before he muttered something and stormed out.

Licking or the talking? John thudded his head against the seat on the sofa as he sat with his back to it. Jesus, the sight of him exploring John, of giving him that unfocused attention, the feel of those rather naïve, curious kisses up his shoulder had been amazing.

Careful, he thought with a deep breath. And as much as he wanted to go after Sherlock, to text, he knew it wouldn't be appreciated.

And there was the smell of burning.

With a sigh John stood, determined to rescue the table from whatever it was Sherlock had done.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much to everyone reading this. I'm having an awful day/week/life! and it's fab to see all the favs/alerts/reviews/hits coming through.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't wanted to discuss his sudden departure nor what had happened before it. Instead he had walked back in to the flat four hours later and stared at the table.

"Why are we missing a corner?"

"Why did you leave acid it?" John asked, flicking through the newspaper.

"Why did you start talking to me in the middle of an experiment?"

"Why did you answer?" John replied, looking up at him. "You never usually do."

Typically childish, Sherlock looked peeved he hadn't had the last word. "You didn't clean them properly," he sulked, long fingers running over the test tubes.

"Not your house-keeper," John grinned.

* * *

As if to prove he was the one in control, Sherlock launched what could only be described as a series of sneak attacks.

These consisted of John doing mundane things around the flat (mundane for him at least, Sherlock probably thought that such things as ironing or hoovering were the strangest hobbies on earth). At some point Sherlock would appear, kiss him then vanish.

And John would gape at empty air, close his eyes and stare heavenwards then continue on with what he was doing. Sherlock was always careful to catch John when his hands were occupied with soapy water or holding something.

The fact was, John wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. The situation was so reminiscent of a school child trying to get their crush to play kiss chase that he worried Sherlock was expecting him to reciprocate. But Sherlock wasn't exactly known for not saying what he wanted. John had to trust that he was simply getting used to the sensation and reassuring himself that he could pick and choose when to be physically affectionate.

And they were quick kisses with a flash of tongue, teeth and lips that stopped just as John started to get into it.

"John?" Sherlock asked when John was in his chair, tapping away at his laptop in a manner that Sherlock had declared plebeianly slow.

"Mm?" John asked, tilting his head back to catch a glimpse of Sherlock.

A long hand cupped John's chin and angled him even further backwards, then soft lips descended. The kiss was long and slow and sweet.

And damn his mind because all he could think of, for the strangest reason, was taking a girl to see Spiderman and how she'd declared it was the sweetest, most romantic thing ever and he, ever young and stupid, had tried to work out a way of doing it just to score points.

And now Sherlock was doing it without even spending three seconds of thought on it.

John snorted with laughter into the kiss. Sherlock paused, frowned against him and pulled back.

"Something amusing?"

"Seen spiderman?"

Sherlock's eyed narrowed, "No."

"Probably a lost reference," John stared up and could see a flicker of unease on Sherlock's face as he tried to understand. "I…there's a film and a kiss upside down. It sent hearts a flutter," John tried to explain, suddenly feeling utterly stupid. "I…I spent ages trying to work out how to replicate it and failed miserably."

The pale eyes that so utterly fascinated him rose to the ceiling thoughtfully.

"Ah, no." John stood quickly. "Passing daft thought, that's all. At no point are we stringing each other up from the ceiling."

He could swear Sherlock's shoulders slumped with disappointment.

* * *

"I want to see your shoulder again."

The chopsticks, laden with food, hovered by his mouth for a moment, then John sighed and dropped it back onto the plate. "Now?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. "No," he said.

"So…this is just a heads up?"

"Is that not polite?" Sherlock asked.

John actually found himself trying to work that out, "I…guess so?" he said slowly. "But…" he pushed the plate away, trying to arrange what he wanted to see into careful, precise sentences. About three times he tried to start and thought better of it.

"I am not a teenage girl," Sherlock snapped. "I will not have some histrionic fit if you do not phrase yourself well. Believe me, I am more than used to it after reading that _thing_," he said, glaring at the laptop pointedly.

"Okay," John nodded. "We don't have to book appointments with each other Sherlock. If you're in the mood for something tell me. If you just want a…" he hesitated and Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. "…hug," he said pathetically, because God knew Sherlock did not want hugs but John couldn't think of another word. "Then that's fine. It's not a session where we have to do everything at once in a certain time frame."

Sherlock clicked his jaw.

"Like the…sneak attacks?" John asked. "You don't have to act quite so much like a thief darting in and out. If you want to kiss me on your way to pick something up then you can. I'm not going to demand that you finish what you start."

Sherlock flinched and looked away.

John reached for his plate again, bracing himself for the door slamming shut.

"And that's not considered…teasing?"

It took John a moment to realise that Sherlock was asking him a question. "Huh?" he said, then his mind caught up. "Oh, no. It…" he sighed, pushed the plate away (silently wondering if this was how Sherlock felt when John started chatting during his experiments), "It's affection," he said. "Look," he kneeled up and reached over, silently asking for permission. Sherlock watched him, but didn't move away or shake his head so John leaned in, brushing his lips against Sherlock's.

"Pass the fork?" he asked, with a peck.

Sherlock tilted his head back, "Is that meant to be a way of diverting my attention from the fact that you are not intending to eat with the correct implements?"

Power. Again.

Feeling a little defeated John sat back. "Sure," he said miserably, pocking at his food again.

He didn't look at Sherlock. Stupid and bad and wrong he knew. Sherlock was the one who had the horrendous past, who had suffered and John couldn't even manage-

Sherlock suddenly was close and a gentle kiss pressed against his cheek as the fork handle was pressed into John's hand. Startled, John looked up to Sherlock's almost shyly questioning gaze.

John just nodded and leaned against him, trying to man-up, just a little bit.

Then Sherlock smiled, looking pleasantly surprised and John felt the smallest bit of weight fall away.

* * *

One thing Sherlock would absolutely not do was kiss John hello. The thought as to why he felt like that made John try to breathe very slowly and very carefully. The worst thing was that it was such a hard habit to break. Every single past relationship had expected a greeting kiss at some point and John found himself making aborted moves and looking as if he were trying to do the chicken dance or restart the 'Walk like an Egyptian' craze.

Sherlock had looked amused at first, his expression changing from defensive to a lip twitch in seconds. But the more John became irritated with himself, the more Sherlock started to frown.

* * *

It started when John was eating his toast and swearing at the television for mentioning the flu. Every dick in London would use it as an excuse to get off work and every hypochondriac would be dancing at the idea.

"Look," John pointed at the television as Sherlock walked cautiously into the room, hair ruffled from lying down. John was pretty sure he hadn't slept; Sherlock Holmes didn't do such things. "Just because they've had a slow news day they want to piss on my morning-"

Sherlock came up to stand beside him, his fingers brushing John's wrist soothingly and then with a slightly firmer, quicker thumb stroke in movements that almost matched the syllables in 'good morning'. "No crime then?" he asked, disappointed.

John looked down at his wrist and tried not to smile, his grumpy air suddenly vanishing. "No. Slow day for you, manic day for me." Finishing his toast he reached for his tea. "Unless I snap and kill everyone looking for a doctor's note."

"Dull," Sherlock dismissed.

"How about I promise that if I do turn homicidal I'll make it interesting?"

"Please do," Sherlock replied pompously, throwing himself of the sofa.

* * *

The wrist touch seemed to work both ways and John actually found himself preferring it. They could even do it in public without drawing too much attention to themselves.

And best of all Sherlock looked ridiculously pleased with himself for solving it.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Warning: John and PTSD + Sherlock and past sexual abuse = not good. Be aware of panic attacks and thoughtless words said in the heat of the moment.

* * *

Chapter Four

The fight was not a good one. Nor was it one to be having in the car park of Scotland Yard.

"I do not need you hovering," Sherlock hissed, gesticulating with painfully sharp movements. "This attitude of yours in intolerably insulting-"

"Because I pushed you out the way?" John asked, tired and, in the back of his mind knowing he was going to be paying for the day's events later. "Oh no, you're right, how dare I treat you as if getting hit by a pipe was going to be an issue. Clearly I'm a bastard."

"I do not need you interfering," Sherlock drew himself up. "And I am sick to death of you treating me as if I'm made of glass."

"I can't sodding win," John threw up his hands.

"No," Sherlock snarled, "So stop trying. I refuse to be thought of as fragile-"

"No, I was thinking of you as human. My mistake," John turned away and stormed off.

* * *

Sherlock didn't come home and John found that he didn't particularly care.

In fact he was bloody grateful.

The case had been difficult. There had been a red herring lead which had led them to an air-hanger and John had struggled with the smell of petrol and the sound of planes, something about it reminding him far too much of deployment and the half remembered trip to a better equipped hospital after he'd been shot and contracted a fever. Then a trip to the rifle yard so Sherlock could examine something to do with the trajectory of the shot. Had they done it the other way around or one without the other John would have coped better he was sure.

The final nail in the coffin was pushing Sherlock out of the way when the suspect, climbing up a fire escape, had knocked a scaffolding pole down at them. It had clipped John's shoulder, not hard enough to break or anything like that but it hurt.

The stirred memories and the pain…all in all John was almost on his knees in thanks that Sherlock hadn't seen the signs.

It was bloody hypocritical, he knew that. He was trying to get Sherlock to be vulnerable, to open up and let John in and John wasn't doing the same. But Sherlock abhorred the idea of showing weakness and John wasn't exactly eager to test how Sherlock would react at seeing weakness in him. Besides, it wasn't the best time to be trying it out; not after their fight.

He stayed awake as long as possible, vainly hoping that the sheer exhaustion he was feeling would leave him no energy to dream.

Stupid.

* * *

Four o clock in the morning found John on the bathroom floor, having woken feeling horrifically nauseous. Exhausted and half asleep he could feel himself start to lose coherency.

His shoulder hurt too much. He could feel it, the pain creeping down his back and through his arm. The tremor, not the one that Mycroft had dismissed but the other one, the one that had seen him out of the military because the nerves and muscles couldn't cope with long periods of stress on them, was starting to creep in.

Useless.

Everything was shaking, everything hurt and the artificial light in the bathroom swayed his vision, half convincing him he was back on that terrible flight.

Panic attack, he thought dimly as he gasped for air, trying to convince himself it was all in his head. Stupid. Not real.

But it hurt. And his body felt so foreign…so out of his control and wrong.

Something had to be wrong.

Nothing was wrong. He was tired. Bad day, bad night.

For the third time he tried to call Sherlock, not at all expecting him to pick up but needing the sound of his voice. Just the clipped, bored tone made him relax a little, trying to picture Sherlock dismissing the errant signals of his body.

It helped somehow. Helped to imagine Sherlock sneering at the idea, helped to picture Sherlock's lips forming the word 'transport' dismissively.

"What?" Sherlock's voice barked.

That wasn't the message. John waited for it.

"If this is your idea of a hoax call try not using your phone John. Honestly this is-"

"Hot chocolate," John said, suddenly realising Sherlock was at the other end. "We…we're out of it."

His voice wavered and his fingers skidded across the bathroom floor.

"Hot chocolate?"

It was suddenly hard to breathe. His hand couldn't stay on the phone and it hit the floor as he tried to keep his breathing calm.

Failed.

He hated it. There was nothing wrong with him, nothing at all. He knew that. He hadn't been in a fight, hadn't been in an accident. There were no broken bones or deathly disease eating away at him.

He should be able to manage this.

A bang downstairs made him struggle even more, half feeling as if there was something around his chest. Bang. Pain. Respond. Trapped.

Ignore it! Now. Ignore it, stop whinging and get back to bed.

Now.

But absolutely nothing would respond and he shut his eyes, forcing will power into his body, trying to move.

When he opened his eyes Sherlock was in the doorway, pale and staring.

John had failed to keep him away from this.

The thought made him struggle even more and he fought the urge to think he was suffocating with everything he had, knowing that the symptoms were only made worse if he believed the power they had over him.

"Go to bed," he said, trying to keep his voice soft. "It'll pass. Just…if you wouldn't mind, would you…"

His mind couldn't focus. Skittered in panic at the idea of asking Sherlock for help, at wondering what Sherlock was seeing when he looked at John.

A careful hand touched his, "You're frozen," Sherlock whispered.

John shook his head, "Not real," he managed, "None of it. I'll stop it soon."

As he said it, his hand tremored violently and the pain of it, knocking his bruised shoulder into the tiles, made John struggle to remember where he was.

"Breathe," Sherlock ordered. "John, breathe. In and then out. Just focus on my voice. In and out."

John obeyed as something warm and smelling of Sherlock settled around him. Hands were at his shoulders, trying to tuck the coat around him, sliding and tapping his scarred-

The pain sent him struggling to breathe again. Sherlock muttered something that John vaguely heard and then gently tugged at his t-shirt sleeve.

"You idiot," Sherlock hissed, "You bloody stubborn man."

"Sorry."

"No-" Sherlock sighed. "I…can you manage five minutes? Just five minutes?"

John nodded. Sherlock pressed a quick, reassuring kiss to his lips and vanished.

He had to calm down. Needed to. Be calm.

Just when he thought he couldn't take any more, Sherlock once again appeared.

"I need you to stand up," Sherlock was careful to take his uninjured arm. "Sitting here isn't good."

"Been trying," John shook his head.

Failed.

Sherlock pulled at him and somehow John found himself upright.

How Sherlock managed to get him down the stairs John would never know. He was then placed on a soft surface, Sherlock behind him and there were covers around his lap.

"John, relax. You need to relax."

"I'll stop it soon."

Sherlock leaned his head on John's shoulder. "Relax," he soothed.

* * *

An undefinable amount of time later, when the warmth started to seep in and Sherlock continued to help him breathe, John opened his eyes.

And had no idea where he was.

The sight calmed him even more. It wasn't a hospital, it wasn't his own sparse room that still reminded him every so often of the bedsit and the dull eyed occupants. This room was blue and welcoming with things on the shelves, interesting objects that Sherlock had picked up and kept.

He shouldn't be in here.

"I will beat you if you continue that thought," Sherlock muttered, shifting out from behind John.

"Killer bedside manner there," John said, shivering as he lost Sherlock's warmth.

"Lie down," Sherlock stood staring at him one eye a little more narrowed than the other. "You wanted something earlier, what was it?"

There was no way Sherlock had actually picked up the hot chocolate so John just shook his head as he slid down and rested his head on the pillow.

It smelled like Sherlock. Which was probably a bit surprising considering the likely amount of time Sherlock spent in his room.

* * *

When he woke, Sherlock was placing a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the bedside table.

Feeling far calmer and a hell of a lot more embarrassed, John sat up.

"You made me hot chocolate," he smiled at the sight.

Sherlock shrugged, "I went across the road and bought one, then poured it into one of our mugs. Does the gesture still count?"

John nodded, wrapping his hand around the mug and holding it to him carefully. "Thank you," he said, "For last night."

"Your shoulder," Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. "It's bruised."

"Mm," John took a sip, feeling something tight in his stomach start to unwind. "Didn't think it would be that bad," he confessed. "I don't think I woke up properly."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "You were barely aware most of the night."

"Oh God, did I say anything stupid?"

"Yes. You told me to leave."

Thankfully the hot chocolate gave him a bit longer to think as he took a sip. "Did I?"

"You seemed to assume I would see this as a weakness."

Another sip. John wasn't exactly sure what to say. "You don't like seeing it in yourself," John said slowly. "And this is…" he placed the mug back. "I'm a grown man phoning in the middle of the night for a hot drink to chase away a nightmare."

"I'm a grown man who can't bear a hello kiss," Sherlock argued. "You have no problem with that."

Oh, he had a problem with it, just not with Sherlock.

"Why did…" John looked around. "Why did you put me in here? That can't have been an easy decision?"

"Your room is a familiar place – you often wake from nightmares in the room and go back to them there. This room does not have the same connotation in your mind," Sherlock said, ignoring John's last question.

Right. That made sense. John watched Sherlock who was staring the pattern on the bed spread as if it was about to start talking.

He wanted to tell Sherlock he didn't have to do it, that he hadn't had to stay with John or invite him into his room. But, at the back of his mind, there was a small niggling voice reminding him of how…well Sherlock had reacted when John had implied Sherlock had some responsibility in the honesty of their relationship for John's sake as well as his own.

If it had been reversed, if they had each-others problems, John had a feeling he would have…enjoyed was the wrong word, but been determined to give Sherlock something back when he had a wobble.

Perhaps there had been some slight truth to what Sherlock said. Playing the valiant hero was addictive but it did push Sherlock into the continued damsel in distress role.

Though Sherlock was the least likely person John would ever put in that category.

"So," John reached out for the hot chocolate, "Your turn to get the pole next time, right?"

"Considering the depth of your reaction I suggest I am always the one to get the pole."

Reluctantly John felt his lips twitch and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Must you be such a child? Well done, you spotted sexual innuendo."

"Well I day dreamed my way through our first hug," John shrugged, "And, knowing you, that could well be our only hug."

The eyes narrowed a little.

"'Cause you're a prickly git, not because you were…seriously even before I knew about…I didn't expect hugs."

Sherlock levelled a glare. "You aren't going to say the words?"

"Well you never have."

Instead of becoming defensive, Sherlock seemed to consider this, his head tilting thoughtfully.

"Do…do you want me out?" John asked, trying to keep the reluctance out of his voice. Annoyingly the covers were at that perfect temperature for snuggling down and ignoring the world.

"I…I'm not sure," Sherlock stared at him.

"Well, you let me know what-" John hissed suddenly spotting the time. "Shit, I'm meant to be at work at midday."

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?" John slid out of the bed, wincing at the smell of stale clothes from the amount he had sweated into the chilling air last night.

"You are in no fit state to go to work."

Anger soared. If this was what Sherlock felt like when John was 'mother henning' him then John would gladly never do it again. "Why?" he asked, folding his arms, fuming.

The expression on Sherlock's face was the exact same one he had when watching Only Connect and was pondering some distracting but genius level question that had most of the population staring in horror.

"What?" John snapped. "What's the puzzle today?"

"I'm working out how to spin my answer. If you can do it, I certainly can."

"There's a lot of things I can do that you can't apparently," John grouched, storming out the room.

* * *

It was only mid shower that those words caught up with him.

Great, in the space of twenty four hours he'd implied Sherlock wasn't human, insulted his capacity for compassion (though granted that one might have slipped by Sherlock) and then accidently implied that Sherlock was less than him because he'd had the sheer fucking bad luck to be targeted by some utter-

John slammed his fist into the tile. Three times.

On the fourth time there was a crack.

John closed his eyes and tried to calm down. He had been so beyond careful not to think about the Uncle, not to touch the lurking, impotent rage that burned underneath every time Sherlock looked confused by the slightest hint of decency in affectionate touches.

John couldn't have the patience with Sherlock if he let himself touch that anger. And it needed to be pushed back, buried deep before he stepped foot outside the bathroom door.

Even if his hand was throbbing now.

One single knock banged on the door. John didn't move, didn't trust himself to speak.

"I told them you were ill. Feel free to throw a tantrum while not in my presence."

God he loved that man.

* * *

Tried watching/playing Only Connect the other day. I felt well thick within four minutes!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The last thing he was expecting to see when he opened his eyes first thing in the morning was Sherlock on the bed next to him. John stared; waiting for the image to rearrange itself to the pillow and covers he was expecting to see.

"Your breath smells," Sherlock announced.

There were many things he could do. He could strop, yell, demand Sherlock remember what the word boundaries meant.

Instead he chose the childish option and puffed a breath at Sherlock, grinning when the daft sod wrinkled his nose and rolled away a little.

Seconds later a hand was shoving a polo in his mouth with all the grace of a penguin fin. John almost choked on it as he laughed.

"Your bed is very hard," Sherlock wriggled as if to find a good spot.

"Yours was too soft."

"Hm," Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "We may have to negotiate that issue."

Christ, if that one day would be the worst of their problems then John would kiss every stranger he ever met in thanks.

"Your hand," Sherlock nodded his chin to it. "How long before it's operational again?"

They hadn't really discussed the hand. When John had finally emerged from the shower after three more calls from Sherlock, with varying insulting comments about the stupidity of people who drowned in the shower, there had been a long look and Sherlock had simply suggested that perhaps John should pop into work to get something for it.

"Uh…" John glanced at it, awkwardly strapped as it was, "Two weeks?" he said, "Depends really. You can never tell with hand injuries."

"And is this having an effect on your routine?"

"Yeah," John nodded, trying to look as miserable and pathetic as possible.

He might be able to get a daily cup of tea out of Sherlock at this rate.

Fathomless eyes watched him. "Do you want me to help?"

Had to be Christmas. Or the end of the world.

"Can do," John stretched, enjoying the slight pop in his back, then opened his mouth to say…something, anything when Sherlock suddenly rolled on top of him and kissed him.

Despite his earlier complaints about John's breath, Sherlock seemed strangely unfazed by it. Confident even. Maybe it was the hand or maybe it was seeing John being a pathetic mess the other week. Either way John groaned into the delicious mouth, hands lightly tracing Sherlock's sides, still careful not to touch skin.

A hand undid his pyjama shirt. Ever since last week John had taken to wearing them just in case he had another episode and ended up sitting on the freezing bathroom floor in a thin t-shirt and boxers.

He hesitated into the kiss, and then dismissed it. He'd been shirtless with Sherlock before. And Sherlock had mentioned he wanted to see the scar again.

The kisses left his mouth and trailed down his neck. Remembering the last time, John wisely kept his mouth shut, not daring to compliment or comment on what Sherlock was doing. That felt bloody weird, almost like he was being rude for not acknowledging Sherlock's fantastic tongue and skill.

And he was good. Sherlock seemed to learn the nooks and crannies fast, cataloguing which made John's breath stutter, a finger on his wrist indicated he was checking heart rate.

Sherlock stayed away from the bruised shoulder that looked like someone had been finger painting with a rather dark and ugly shade of purple. Instead he mouthed down John's chest, exploring the lines of his ribs in a way that made John smile fondly. Part of him wanted to stroke Sherlock's hair but that seemed like such a big possible mind field that he clenched his fists and kept them fiercely pinned at his side.

Then the elastic of the waistband was pulled at and John moved like a shot, grabbing at Sherlock's wrist with one hand and lifting Sherlock's chin awkwardly with his bad one.

Sherlock froze, eyes utterly fixed on the hand under his jaw.

What the hell was he- John suddenly caught sight of his hand, strapped and awkward.

"Oh," he said, having a sudden epiphany. "Oh, Christ, I thought you meant you'd make me a cuppa."

Sherlock looked lost and then blinked, "Ah."

What the hell were they meant to do now? Sherlock was so bloody close to his dick that every breath was in danger of…stirring things up. Slowly, John dropped his hand from Sherlock's chin and let go of his wrist.

"So when you said you'd help out you meant-"

"Masturbation," Sherlock said, quite frankly. "Or oral," he looked down at John's crotch thoughtfully.

God, it was like torture. And what was worse was it was his own will power doing the torturing. "Right," John breathed, "Um…I think I can probably…not have you…act as a replacement for my hand," he said, sounding pathetically uncertain to his own ears. "But thank you."

Sherlock looked down.

"But um…if you want to," John looked at his rather unattractive shoulder (not that it looked good when it wasn't covered in bruises), "above the waist." He winced at himself.

But Sherlock looked suddenly enthusiastic and scrambled up John's body, all elbows and knees, digging into John.

"Right," John folded his arm under his head. "Want a magnifying glass?" he asked sarcastically.

One of these days he would learn that sarcasm when Sherlock was in experiment mode was not a good idea. Sherlock scampered off suddenly and returned with the lens.

"You're lucky nothing was broken," Sherlock said, almost bouncing around the bed as he peered at John's shoulder.

"Yeah," John nodded. "Back's playing up again though. That fucking masseuse will make a fortune out of me."

Sherlock's head shot up, meerkat like in its speed. "Masseuse?"

"Chiropractor," John corrected hastily. That sounded far more acceptable in his head. "I'm getting old," he added.

"I want to do it," Sherlock sat back, almost pouting. "I thought we were together."

"I'm visiting a masseuse…chiropractor, not a prostitute," John rolled his eyes.

"Roll over-"

"No," John said very quickly. "Sherlock," he sighed, "I'm bad enough as it is at the moment with the shoulder. Don't add the leg into it."

"Roll over," Sherlock insisted. "I am not stupid."

"I…" John stared up at him then, with an annoyed sound, rolled. Sherlock eased the shirt off of him until John lay naked from the waist up, face down.

The bed dipped and Sherlock lay down on his side, almost face to face with John's tilted head.

John tucked his hands under the pillow and almost jumped when Sherlock's fingers traced his spine lazily.

It felt good. Tingling and delicious to have someone's hands on him without worrying about Sherlock. It was a danger free zone at the moment and he would have plenty of warning should anything go wrong.

The hands became firmer and there was a naturalness to the strokes that bled through into John. Occasionally, when he hissed, Sherlock would pause but seemed to gain confidence and then sought out the knots in John's back with an odd look of fascination on his face.

He was only using one hand, the other was at first by his cheek and then braced on the bed as Sherlock sat up for better access. Blissfully relaxed, John reached out and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's hand, then stroked it.

Sherlock paused, "You're ruining my angle," he complained. "Your back needs to be straight."

John smiled and slid his hand under the pillow again.

The first press of lips surprised him. Over and over again the lips followed the hands, sometimes sweet little nips, others were almost kitten like licks.

Both made him rock hard and he breathed into the pillow.

"You're aroused," Sherlock murmured.

There was no point in lying. John nodded.

Behind him Sherlock made a frustrated noise and stopped what he was doing, forehead pressed against John's spine.

"I despise this," Sherlock said finally into John's skin. "I know you won't…I don't understand how I can know that and still not…" he broke off, shaking his head.

John said nothing, wishing he had some magical, helpful words.

Sherlock shifted pulling back a little, a finger tracing a pattern into John's back. "I don't think I ever saw his back," he said, almost not really aware he was speaking from the distant sound of his voice. "Or Victor's."

"Victor?"

"Mm. First attempt afterwards."

"How many attempts-"

"Him and you," Sherlock swirled his fingers. "Victor seemed to think I needed saving."

"You don't need saving, you need etiquette class," John replied, almost on automatic.

Sherlock chuckled, "Indeed." The fingers moved suddenly stroking and then jumping from place to place. "You've never asked about him."

Him. The lurking presence at the corner of their relationship. "No," John swallowed. "I…you'll tell me what you need to."

"No promises to avenge? No demands to know where he lives?"

God it was tempting. John would happily beat his hand to a bloody pulp hitting that fucker over and over again.

"You are more important than my vengeance," John said eventually.

A thumb stroked his back. "Mycroft killed him."

John went utterly stiff in shock. "Excuse me?"

"Whether he did the deed himself…" Sherlock seemed utterly unbothered. "But miraculously Garret disappeared within two weeks of Mycroft finding out. Never to be seen again. Mycroft would not have let him live."

"How did you react?"

"I…at the time I was angry. I thought…" Sherlock's voice sounded utterly lost. "I don't know what I thought," he ended up confessing.

It was strange to hear those words from him. Even stranger to hear them said in a rather forlorn tone rather than the scathing self-directed irritation that had accompanied them the three times John had heard Sherlock say them.

"That's…not unusual," John said slowly, thinking of the few occasions where friends in the doctoring profession had mentioned abuse cases.

"So I've been told."

John clenched his hands under the pillow. "I…are we going too fast or too slow?" he asked slowly. "I mean…" he closed his eyes. "I know we're gonna have to push through some things, I just…"

How uncomfortable was too uncomfortable? And when exactly did the boundaries blur between pushing through reluctance and plain force?

But Sherlock, wonderful, brilliant Sherlock seemed to understand John's babbled unfinished sentence.

"I want to try," he said, fingers sweeping-

Christ, he was drawing letters on John's back. Why the hell hadn't John being paying attention.

"Try?" John said, even as his mind followed what was being written onto his back.

R. e. o. f.

"Roll over and take your trousers off."

He missed one of the letters. O.U.

"John?"

Inexplicably nervous, John rolled over and shimmied out of his pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock moved and looked down, studying John's cock so intently that John wanted to squirm. A hand reached out and John saw Sherlock's eyes flicker to his hands that lay on the bed.

When John lifted them, Sherlock tensed. Trying to ignore the reaction, John brought them up by his face, hesitating when folding them underneath his head would look far too arrogant and demanding.

He moved them higher, half stretched, looping through the headboard.

"You are more intelligent than most think," Sherlock said softly.

"Attempt at a compliment?" John asked lightly.

"Yes," Sherlock's mouth twitched with humour.

"Ah," John nodded as if very serious.

That made the twitch flash into a smile for one wonderful second.

Then one finger stroked a path up John's dick and John tilted his head to the ceiling, closing his eyes as he tried to get past the instant and overwhelming urge to mindlessly follow the desire singing in his blood. The fact that it was Sherlock (and yes, the fact that his dominant hand had been strapped for days) was making him a lot more interested than he usually would be.

"John?" Sherlock sounded worried.

"Getting used to it," John breathed. "Just, knowing it's you is um…very arousing. It's good."

"Good?" Sherlock sounded peeved at the word, "Good? Is that-"

John waited for the rest of the rant. When it didn't come he risked opening his eyes to the sight that made him want to grab and taste and-

Sherlock was looking bewildered and was glancing between what his hand was doing and John's face.

"What?"

"We're having a normal conversation," Sherlock shook his head. "Are we meant to be doing that?"

"Why? Think the head-teacher's gonna come in and tell us off?"

The head tilt made an appearance. "It doesn't bother you? Talking like this? It's hardly…setting the mood."

Setting the mood?

"Did you want rose petals and candles?" John asked doubtfully.

"Victor did that once," Sherlock said looking disgusted with the idea.

John snorted, "Had he met you?"

That startled a laugh out from Sherlock. "We can talk then?"

John looked down at the still stroking finger, the light touch now something he was used to. "Er…do what you want?" he asked. "But that earlier was…you know. Fun. A bit of banter."

The finger paused and Sherlock seemed to be assimilating that idea.

"Good," Sherlock nodded.

"Just good?" John asked, grinning.

Catching the reference to their earlier conversation, Sherlock started stroking, still looking more relaxed than John had expected. "Simply using your limited vocabulary," he said.

Then, with a hesitant look up at John, his whole hand curled around. John snapped his hips forward, instinctively wanting more.

"I…" Sherlock broke off and took a breath, "I like you like this."

The word desperate was on the tip of his tongue, but somehow he knew that wouldn't go down well. "Wanting you?" John asked, voice sounding strangled to his own ears.

Sherlock nodded, cheeks flushed but John could see frustration starting to show in the clenched jaw.

"Too much?"

"No," the reply was immediate and far too forceful to be believed.

"Sherlock-"

The hands slowed and then stopped, lifting away from John, almost as if he was being told to put his hands up. John didn't have a clue what to say as Sherlock slowly got off the bed and lowered his hands.

"It's okay-"

Sherlock snarled with pure frustration, his hand lashing out, grabbing one of the glasses on the drawers and he threw it at the wall.

Given John's own anger issues last week he didn't really have the right to judge. Scooting up the bed to sit up, he waited.

"This is illogical," Sherlock started to pace. "This is…pathetically stupidly inane. Useless teenagers manage to do this. I managed this years ago."

"With Victor?"

Sherlock nodded, still pacing. "And Garret. It's a hand job, not fucking astrophysics."

"Am I…" John drew his knee up and rested an arm on it. "Am I making too much of it? Making it into something you think you should feel strange about?"

"Yes."

John restrained the urge to wince.

"But not for the reasons you think."

"Okay…"John stared at him, trying to work out if this was one of those odd times where Sherlock was wildly incorrect (or, as Sherlock would verbosely excuse, misinformed and not aware of all of the pertinent data because people were stupid). "If you tell me I could fix it."

"You cannot 'fix' this-"

"I didn't mean I could fix your reactions-"

"No," Sherlock made an impatient gesture, "That isn't what I meant…I…" he looked at the ceiling.

"Sherlock?"

With his eyes still fixed on the ceiling, Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and kept everything angled away from John. "Victor was easy because I didn't care. You…I want to…make you happy and," he took a breath, "please you," he said in a frustrated voice. "It…that feeling blurs and-"

"You don't need to please me," John sat up quickly. "God, of course you-"

"We are in a relationship are we not?"

Well…they hadn't exactly discussed that, but sure. John nodded slowly.

"I believe the point of these things is to improve the quality of life by sharing it."

Only Sherlock could make a discussion about romance sound like that.

"And you have a…pleasing smile," Sherlock added, glaring now at the pattern on the ceiling as if it were committing the most uninspired crime ever. "And I know what you thought when I said I wanted to please you and I don't understand where that line is between…I don't even understand the difference. One form of pleasing someone is right and the other is wrong and I cannot draw a line that makes sense."

"I…me neither," John confessed slowly. "I suppose…it's about how comfortable you are and how much you enjoy it."

Sherlock shook his head.

"You do enjoy it?" John asked, suddenly worried.

Those unreadable grey eyes turned to him and John licked his lips nervously.

"Yes but I…" Sherlock squinted and then looked down and shook his head. "I do not wish to discuss it."

John sighed and buried his face in his hands trying to not snap at Sherlock. If it was an issue that was causing this much of a problem they needed to discuss it, or at least try.

But then he was hardly the best person to be giving out lectures on being willingly vulnerable.

He lifted his head, slowly pushing his hands down his face until the cupped his nose and mouth and shook his head. "I need something," he said and dropped his hands. "Some hint of what it is, otherwise we are just going to have this conversation again and ag–"

Sherlock walked out the room and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

When it became clear Sherlock wasn't coming back at all that day John went out, needing some air.

"Doctor Watson."

Huh. John turned slowly, half surprised this conversation hadn't occurred earlier.

"Get in the car," Mycroft suggested.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"Do take a seat."

He was standing in Mycroft's house, staring at a huge fireplace. It was like going over the red rope at the National Trust houses.

"Drink?"

"No," John circled the chair, not entirely sure what he was looking for but needing to assure himself it was reasonably safe anyway. "This is a bit of a change from the usual wet warehouse."

"The nature of this conversation is…delicate," Mycroft said pouring himself a brandy. "As I'm sure you know. It is not something to be discussed where others might hear."

"Right," John rested his hands flat on the arms of the chair. "So is this where you warn me off? Tell me you'll hire assassins if I break his heart?"

"You don't need me to tell you the second and I'm not foolish enough to believe I can manage the first. If Sherlock wants this then there is very little I can do."

"Then what am I doing here?"

The sound of Mycroft's footsteps fell like an executioners drum and John steeled himself from shifting in his seat like a naughty child. The silence was thick and, from the look on Mycroft's face, the man was thinking very carefully about what to say.

Jesus did that make John nervous.

"Can you imagine what he was like as a child?" Mycroft asked, breaking the tension as he took a seat opposite John. "Rude, careless, wild. Spoiled. Impossible to manage. Our parents tried but they simply were neither equipped nor prepared for a child such as Sherlock.

"Imagine the relief the family felt when it appeared there was one person who could get through to him. Who could even out his temper and call him to heel," there was barely hidden disgust in Mycroft's voice now. "Can you understand how it was encouraged? How Garret would sit, Sunday dinner after Sunday dinner, a life line for our parents to the child that would barely visit? How sweet it was he was taking an interest, how wonderful that Sherlock had such a good role model."

Sickened, John stared at the rug, trying not to picture any of it.

"My assistant saw it. Saw what the all-seeing Holmes were too blind to observe because they so badly wanted to believe that Sherlock was being saved, brought back by this man. I fired her for saying such things."

John opened his mouth but thought better of it, not sure of what would come out if he did.

"But the possibility…it kept circling my head. So I set up a camera, a personal one that only I had access to."

Oh God, he'd filmed it? "Mycroft-" John started to say, an icy worry creeping up his back.

"He'd make him beg for it. Like a dog wanting a bone."

The air vanished from John's chest. Horror burned in his throat and he struggled to draw in breath.

"Nineteen years old." Mycroft took a sip, and then put his hand back on the armrest. "They had a 'routine' and Garret was always very vocal. 'Whore' this 'slut' that," Mycroft said, as if the matter didn't make him feel one way or the other. "In that room, in that house, Garret owned Sherlock. There wasn't a single thing my brother wouldn't agree to and Garret's tastes were perverse enough to exploit that."

John swallowed, tears burning his eyes.

"Now all of a sudden, in front of me, is a man who can handle Sherlock, who can improve his mood and make him less of a brat to work with. Who lives with him and has turned up like a saviour once more-"

"No," John leaned forward, furious at even the suggestion, "I have told him so many times that this is not the same. That he doesn't have to do this, that his friendship-"

"But you can see the parallels," Mycroft stated, unruffled. "The similarities? Superficial of course but there. And if you can see some, can you imagine what Sherlock can see?"

He could. He didn't want to, but he could.

"And I don't know how it started, how subtle Garret was. How he might have coaxed-"

"I wouldn't-"

"Garret provided Sherlock with a fantasy companion and Sherlock wanted to believe in it so desperately that it allowed Garret to control him," Mycroft said, speaking over John with practised ease. "You are the reality."

That took his breath away.

"The illusion Sherlock fell for could have entirely been based on you," Mycroft pushed even further.

Feeling trapped somehow, the chair was utterly unyielding as John leaned back and away from Mycroft.. "Are you saying I should leave him?"

"No."

"Good."

A glimmer of an approving smile passed Mycroft's lips. "I am merely explaining to you a small portion of the turmoil Sherlock will be experiencing. Why he will find you the hardest person to truly trust in this area."

"And Victor?"

A far lighter version of Sherlock's sneer appeared. "Useless man," Mycroft took another sip, looking as if he actually enjoyed the drink this time. "But he served his purpose."

"Which was?"

"He bored Sherlock into refusing to be self-pitying. Bored him so much that Sherlock became bored of sex. Numb to it. Quite a fete it must be said." Mycroft shrugged as if it was normal to be that informed of your sibling's sex life. John's approach to Harry's had been more hands over ears and shouting 'lalala' when Harry once tried to discuss technique with John. It was his sister for Christ sakes.

Though granted he couldn't quite imagine Mycroft taking that approach.

"So," John took a deep breath, "The fact that Sherlock is trying with me means we will have a chance of him not being bored but it also means that he is now having to face the emotional shit storm that he refused to deal with back then because you thought it was better for him to be numb?" he could barely keep the accusing tone from his voice.

He was barely sure he wanted to.

For perhaps the first time in his history of knowing Mycroft Holmes , the man looked uncomfortable. "That's…a simplified way of looking at it."

"And God forbid I use the word simple to explain one of you two," John scrubbed at his forehead with his fingers.

Mycroft remained silent as he sipped. John watched, hand still against his forehead and tilted to one side. It was always so impossible to know what he thought about anything.

"Did he suffer?" John asked suddenly, almost sure he should be surprised he had asked the question. But he wasn't.

And Mycroft didn't flinch or show even the slightest amount of surprise that John knew. "Exceedingly so."

"Did he beg?"

Approval lightened up those severe eyes. "Of course."

"Good."

Mycroft smiled and studied him as if debating something. "Of course, should you hurt my brother I will ensure you meet an equally poetic end."

John dropped his hand from his face, oddly amused. "You are the only person in the world who can manage to make a threat sound like approval."

"I would not mention that to my brother. You know how competitive he can be."

* * *

"You've seen Mycroft," Sherlock announced when John got back in that evening.

"Tell him to stop sending cars," John put his keys on the table carefully.

"Has it ever entered your tiny little mind to not get in the car?" Sherlock snapped.

Yes. Once or twice. "If Mycroft wants to talk to me he'll find a way. Hardly any point in dragging it out," John said, tired suddenly.

Sherlock followed him, trailing his every move around the flat as if he were a baby duckling who wanted to shove at its mother. Slowly, as Sherlock became his shadow, tiredness slipped into frustration.

John lasted three minutes before he turned, folding his arms. "Spit it out then," he demanded.

"I was about to say the same to you," Sherlock glared at him, drawing himself up to full height in a manner that reminded John of a snake leaning back to pounce. "What did he tell you?"

"He was trying to help-"

"He had no right," Sherlock roared. "It's my life, my past. Mine. I choose whether to-"

"I agree," John cut across him, trying to remain calm.

That utterly derailed Sherlock who blinked and then stepped back, almost looking put out.

"But," John said warily. "I also think there are some things you think I should know but you can't say."

Sherlock's gaze shifted to the wall behind John.

"And," John continued, feeling as if he were navigating a path through broken shards of glass. "I need to know them, because I need to work out what I need to do."

Grey eyes narrowed back on him, a hint of suspicion in their depths.

"You need to be in control," John said slowly. "So…I suggest you and I set some rules."

There was a flinch; tiny and almost unnoticeable, but there.

"I have three and you add to them as you wish. After I say mine I won't make any more demands. And you can hear them before we agree on anything."

Slowly, Sherlock seemed to relax ever so slightly.

"First, you tell me exactly what you want." John said firmly. "If you don't want me to touch you, you tell me. If you want me to stay silent, you tell me. I'm not asking for dirty talk, just instructions as to how to make you feel comfortable and I will do what you say unless it makes me uncomfortable in which case I will say stop.

"Secondly if either one of us says 'stop' we stop. No questions asked, no explanation needed. No guilt, no rows. And only for ourselves," John took a deep breath because that one was gonna be bloody hard for him to do, "Not for each other," he said, knowing he had to let Sherlock work out his own limits and stop pre-emptively trying to swoop in.

Sherlock nodded slowly, clearly approving of that condition, "And the last?"

This was the difficult bit. Everything in John screamed to shut up, to lie.

"I am going to say something to you," John let out a shaking breath. "And until you reciprocate, we go no further."

He could see that Sherlock's back went up at the words; a rather disbelieving glare was levelled at him. It was as if he knew what John was going to say.

"I…" God, he had to get this out. But it was hard, beyond hard and he'd always been so good at avoiding saying the words before. Always smiled tightly and with closed lips or looked away and avoided it.

"John," Sherlock suddenly looked panicked. "Don't-"

"I have…I have post traumatic…" his voice croaked off to a whisper as he steeled himself, "stress syndrome."

The panicked look faded and Sherlock seemed to soften slightly even as John struggled to keep himself talking, to say what he had never verbally admitted before.

Or talked about. No matter how much Ella had tried, no matter that she had seen the report; he had never talked about it.

Until now. Because if he was asking Sherlock to open up, he had to lead, couldn't be a hypocrite, not in this.

Had to try and be as strong as Sherlock was.

"And…" he let out a breath. "I…when I was shot I…I was working on someone. A young lad. Stupidly young…and when I was hit…it hurt." John let out an odd noise he couldn't even define. "Of course it did, I know. Obviously. But…" John looked up at the ceiling and the forced himself to look at Sherlock who was standing absolutely still, his eyes burning with intensity. "I couldn't think, could barely move from it."

John took a breath, "I…" A strange urge to laugh it off, to stop there hit him, but he pushed past, determined to show Sherlock that it was okay to be…to…he didn't know.

"It took a while to find us- it was dawn by the time…" John tried not to let his mind wander, to conjure up a slideshow of memories to go with the words. "And…I don't know, in the fire-fight something fell on…on my leg. I couldn't-"

Sherlock closed his eyes and shifted.

"He died. I could have helped him and he died. I can't…I need to be useful. That's what brings it on more than anything. I need to be, I need to do something when I've had an attack, I need to feel-"

He was like a broken record, and he couldn't-

Then Sherlock was there pressing his forehead to John's. Just the contact worked to stop him, to get him off the track his mind had become stuck on.

They stood, silently. To his horror, John could feel dampness trickling down his cheek. Just as he was about to pull away, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I…" hands clutched at John's arm. "I was…" Sherlock shook slightly. Wanting to help, John folded his arm back, stroking his thumb awkwardly at Sherlock's wrist.

"He…" Sherlock shook his head against John. "He…I…this is ridiculous," he snapped. "They're words, they change nothing."

John waited. He wouldn't help or demand. Sherlock had managed to stay silent and so could he.

Sherlock pulled away sliding his hand down to John's hand, linking them together and staring at their entwined fingers. His head shook minutely and John had no idea what he was thinking.

Until, finally, Sherlock squeezed and raised his gaze. He was too good at acting for John to judge how he was feeling but he could see the way that Sherlock's eyes searched him and the moment that Sherlock drew up strength from that seemingly unending well inside.

"He abused me," Sherlock said, a waver in his voice. "And he shouldn't have."

John squeezed Sherlock's fingers back. "No," he agreed. "He shouldn't."


	7. Chapter 7

_Hi!_

_Not much happening chapter (sort of forgot I'd written it but I thought you all might like it while I work on the next one. Half way through at the moment so it should be up soon :)_

* * *

"Are you doing that deliberately?"

Why was it that every time he was in a good rhythm with the crossword puzzle, Sherlock would find a way of being disruptive?

"Hm?" he asked, looking up, the end of the pen in his mouth.

Sherlock nodded at the pen pointedly.

"Oh," John popped it out and stared at the end, "You do realise I was chewing it?"

Sherlock winced a little but still stepped closer. Amused, John looked back down at 15 across, sure that he was close to figuring it out.

"I…put the paper away."

John lifted his eyes and searched Sherlock's. With a nod, he folded the paper away and placed it on the side table.

It had happened a few times over the past week. At first Sherlock had almost disappeared for two days, clearly wanting some space after their discussion. Then he seemed to just wander into John's room at random times, talk to him, kiss him and ask for something. It was as if he were doing trial runs.

In fact, John was almost certain that was what he was doing.

"How exact and comprehensive do the parameters need to be?" Sherlock asked suddenly as he stopped at the foot of John's bed.

"Um," John took a deep breath, "I'm sort of hoping that the need for them will fade so start off as thoroughly as you like."

"Fine," Sherlock folded his arms. "I wish to undress, climb into bed, kiss you and then go to sleep."

To his credit, John's jaw only dropped fractionally. In front of him, Sherlock bristled.

"What?" he snapped.

"I…sorry…you lost me at sleep," John said shifting against the pillow as he sat.

"I do sleep John," Sherlock snapped.

"I…know. You collapse into a heap one the sofa. A dignified heap," he added hastily when Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "But you rarely plan to sleep."

"Problem?"

"No," John scratched his neck. "No, not a problem…I just…Okay, so when you say undressed-"

"Boxers."

"Mm," John nodded, "And am I allowed to undress?" he asked gesturing at his clothes that he'd kept on. Seeing Sherlock pace and mutter to himself earlier, John had assumed he was about to be dragged on some wild crime scene chase.

"Yes," Sherlock looked peeved, "You were meant to be in your sleepwear before I got here."

"How remiss of me," John sat up properly.

"Quite."

Struggling not to giggle at the situation, John leaned forward. "Okay so how about you get changed in your room or the bathroom, I'll get changed and then we'll try this again."

Sherlock thought about it and nodded, before turning in his heel and walking out.

* * *

Sherlock returned, not in his boxers but in a pair of pyjama bottoms that hung frustratingly low on his hips. John had undressed and was in his usual sleepwear, fearful of becoming too hot when someone else was in the bed.

"You seem unnaturally attached to that puzzle," Sherlock complained, staring at the space next to John.

"Pot meet kettle," John muttered under his breath as Sherlock sat down, bouncing a little and studying the bed spread.

"This is different," Sherlock complained as he glared at the covers.

John looked over the paper, glanced down at where Sherlock was looking and then stared at the door. "I washed it," he said slowly. "You know, so it was clean."

"You have different covers?"

John had a sudden image of Sherlock's bedroom filled with multiple cloned bed covers. "Variety," he said feeling his lips twitch.

"I liked the other one," Sherlock announced, as if that was all there was to the matter and John had best go out and buy more.

"Good for you," John said, glaring at the crossword again before moving to put it on the side again.

"You can't solve it?"

"I'll sleep on it," John said, turning to him, smiling. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, reached over him and picked up the paper.

Amused at the sight, John grinned when Sherlock frowned at the clues.

"Why would anyone need to know these things?"

"Oh, it's useless trivia," John said snuggling into the pillow.

Sniffing as if mortally offended by the idea, Sherlock dropped the paper on the floor and turned back to John.

Then he seemed to soften, his head tilting as he reached out a hand to stroke John's hair. Leaning down he hovered his lips over John's until all John could concentrate on was the puff of breath over his lips making his toes tingle.

The kiss was slow. Deliciously slow. It was strange how long it had been since he'd had to limit himself to just kisses (or rather been sixteen and unsure about exactly when he was allowed to move on to the next step) and how much he was actually enjoying it.

Taking a chance, and because it had been bloody clear Sherlock had been testing their arrangement all week so surely John was allowed to do the same, he slid a hand up Sherlock's arm, finding a strong, smooth shoulder and then the length of the spine. Sherlock was warm under his hand and the feel of him made John stroke as firm as he dared. Just up and down, feeling muscles ripple as Sherlock kept himself propped up.

Then he moved, kisses trailing down John's chin and John had to almost physically swallow his words back to tell Sherlock how amazing it felt, how wonderful and incredible this was. To ask if he was okay.

Sherlock's kisses, once again, ended up on his shoulder. He shifted and smoothed a thumb over the skin gently.

"The bruises have gone down," he said sounding satisfied.

John nodded, making his strokes on Sherlock's back lighter, more soothing. Then Sherlock shifted again, flopping down next to him, head by John's scarred shoulder, fingers tracing patterns alongside the scars.

The position was surprising but John said nothing. Still, Sherlock seemed to pick up on his confusion.

"If I wake up earlier than you I can look at them."

Ah. Feeling suddenly affectionate John reached over with his free arm and stroked his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock froze and John paused, waiting for the word.

After a moment it seemed obvious the words wasn't coming.

"Sherlock," John prompted.

"Stop."

John dropped his hand away and stared up at the ceiling.

"I thought you had a case," John said, feeling the stiffness still in Sherlock's shoulders. "You were pacing earlier."

"That is not how I pace when I have a case," Sherlock snapped. "Do it again."

"Sherlock-"

"We have rules. Do it again."

John flopped his hand on Sherlock's hair in a rather dramatic fashion causing Sherlock to snort and glare up at him. "Properly John," Sherlock huffed.

With a gentle hand, John stroked his hair again, trying not to focus too hard on the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the sensation. Under his fingers the strands of black locks were smooth and the curl gave them a pleasing texture that he amused himself with.

It was an uncomfortable position though and John turned, shifting until he and Sherlock were face to face, his hand still stroking.

"How am I meant to see your shoulder now?" Sherlock complained.

"I'll move," John said, and then paused his hand in worry. "I move a lot-"

"I know."

"Stalker," John accused, as he moved his hand again.

There was a faint approving smile tugging at Sherlock's lips, "Did you imagine I would do anything but?"

John shook his head, utterly focused on one errant curl by Sherlock's ear. "Not really."

Sherlock said nothing and John kept stroking soothingly, enjoying the knowledge that Sherlock was in the bed, warm and unafraid.

"Your hand is getting tired," Sherlock said in a surprisingly gentle voice.

"Mm," John agreed. "Nice though," he murmured sleepily.

Sherlock's hand caught his and slid it down until their hands were between their bodies. Half asleep now, John watched Sherlock stare at their interlocked fingers as if some great puzzle was contained within.

He was dimly aware when lips pressed against his fingers, a gentle kiss as if he were something precious. Smiling at the sensation he squeezed the long hand wrapped in his own and fell asleep.

* * *

Thanks for reading :)


	8. Chapter 8

_Thank you all for reading and the favouriting and the following :D I know this seems like a mega fast update but I forgot about the earlier chapter and it was a bit fluffy but nothing-y so here is what would have been ch7!_

* * *

John walked through the door and was greeted with food.

On the floor.

Ribbons of flour trailed into tiny little roads, sugar trails and clumps of rice. Beyond it all Sherlock was perched on the table, the furniture all at the very edges of the room, surveying his work.

John turned to leave for his room, then turned back to the mess. "Is it worth asking what you're doing?"

"Map," Sherlock replied in a monotonous tone, his mind obviously on the task at hand.

"And you used food for that?" John asked, leaning on the door frame.

"Mrs Hudson wouldn't let me use paint," Sherlock said with exasperation. "Something about stains."

"Sherlock," John took a step forward.

"You're stepping on Battersea power station," Sherlock scolded.

Ah. Okay… John lifted his foot and stepped back again. "Sherlock," he tried again. "I hesitate to ask…why are you doing this?"

"Need to think."

"You don't have a case, you haven't had one in five days." Though, thinking about it, he may have just answered his own question there.

"Client called in while you were at work," Sherlock pressed his fingers together in a point under his chin. "It appears a thief ran off with a hideously ornate and expensive necklace and was caught an hour later without it. He won't say where he hid it."

"You don't usually need to turn the flat into the Tate Modern to work those sorts of things out," John stared despairingly at the sugar, imagining the ants they were bound to get.

"I am attempting to solve two issues at once. I needed the visual," Sherlock stared determinedly at some pasta that was making up…John tilted his head.

"Is that the Piccadilly line?" he asked pointing to some pasta.

"What else would it be?" Sherlock asked as if bewildered it could possibly be mistaken for anything else.

"I…it…dinner?" John felt a sudden urge to just collapse upstairs.

"I'm busy," Sherlock said, looking back at his map.

"No, I meant…never mind." John shook the thoughts away. "So, the other issue is?"

"What to do with you tomorrow."

It had been a long day. John found himself crossing his arms and glaring, "I'm not a pet," he snapped.

That seemed to confuse Sherlock, who looked up at him curiously. "I am aware of that," he said slowly.

John waited.

"It is our anniversary."

Was it? No…what?

It must have shown on his face just how baffled John was at the idea, because Sherlock scowled at him.

"You forgot?" he demanded.

"I…" John held up his hands in a placating manner, "I…Sherlock…the anniversary of what?"

"What do you mean of what?" Sherlock sneered, "Of us!"

"Okay…" John stared up towards the heavens hoping vainly for some divine intervention.

None seemed to be coming.

"Exactly when did we become…us?" John asked.

"Three months ago tomorrow," Sherlock declared, as if John were being especially thick, which to be fair, John hadn't ruled out yet.

"And…the criteria for that was?"

"We kissed; you kissed me, I then kissed you. We seemed to mutually agree to an attraction and therefore to change our relationship from friends to this."

John supposed that, in Sherlock's world, it was logical.

"Right."

Sherlock eyed him with annoyance and shook his head, "I imagine this bit of spectacular ignorance on your behalf won't make it into that ridiculous blog."

"I...that would mean telling people," John narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge Sherlock's feelings on that, "Which you haven't said you wanted to do."

"Hmm." Sherlock's tone caused John to inwardly sigh and prepare himself for the incoming barrage. "Let's see, my first sexual dalliance was with a man my brother killed for taking advantage and the second was a dullard. In comparison you would almost seem acceptable if not for the inane amount of whinging you are currently displaying."

"Well," John smiled tightly, "Aren't we in a pleasant mood."

"I did not forget our anniversary."

"No, but you did forget to mention to me that you considered us to be in a relationship," John snapped.

"Are we not?" Sherlock looked a little taken aback.

"Of course we are."

"Then you wanted what exactly?" Sherlock had a look on his face that suggested John was coming perilously close to genuinely annoying him.

John stared at him for the longest time. "A cup of tea after dealing with a swimming pool worth of snot," he said pathetically after a moment.

Sherlock winced and glanced down at the floor.

It appeared the river Thames was made of dried leaves…

"Is that my tea?"

As if sensing danger Sherlock shifted on the table. "Quite possibly."

"All of it?"

Sherlock clicked his jaw. "We have milk," he defended suddenly. "Lots of milk."

"Great," John sighed, "No…wait, back to...three months? We are celebrating three months?"

"Well we won't have to do it again," Sherlock said waving a hand.

"I…is this an arbitrary thing? I don't get the significance of three months-"

"We're very serious," Sherlock snapped.

"And?"

"No…" Sherlock actually floundered. "This…we have always been very serious about…" his expression twisted, "My history. I would like to be frivolous and if that means becoming one of those annoying teenagers who celebrate monthly stages then that is what we will do."

It never ceased to amaze John how easy it was to forget he was angry with Sherlock. It was possibly the sweetest thing Sherlock had ever done…if not the most out of the blue thing.

"Okay," he relented, "Are we doing presents-"

"Don't mock," Sherlock snapped. "Of course we are not doing presents, why on earth would I choose to be saddled with wrapping paper and cuddly disease ridden toys?"

John's mind went in two directions at the word toys; one the teddy bear variety and the other…not so child friendly. The mixture was baffling and he just made a confused noise.

"All I require is that tomorrow you are off work, dressed and in a far more appealing frame of mind."

"And the case?"

Sherlock glanced down at the map, "Five hours at the very most. DC Hummer will be online with the thief soon."

"He'll…" only Sherlock could convince someone to do that. "Right…I'm popping down to Speedy's for some tea."

"Coffee, black and sugar."

John paused, considered telling him where to go and then dismissed the idea. Knowing his luck it would end up with Sherlock creating a map of that too.

* * *

It was with some amount of trepidation that John descended the stairs the following morning.

And found it empty.

Huh.

Though not exactly tidy. Exasperated, John stared down at the sticky remains of sugar, the flour still pressed into the wood grains and the odd scattering of rice, tea leaves and what looked suspiciously like the smaller assortments of penny sweets.

They were going to be overrun by vermin. Any second now rats, ants and pigeons would be clamouring through the window and Sherlock would probably decide all would make wonderful pets or attempt to create a completely different type of network to help him on cases.

Sighing, John got out the hoover.

* * *

"Where was that?" Sherlock asked, walking in about half an hour later and staring at the hoover with what worryingly appeared to be genuine confusion.

"In the closet," John said absently, inspecting the corner of the room, trying to decide whether he should plug up the hole in case the vermin of Baker Street were on their way.

"Closet?"

"Upstairs," John glanced over his shoulder, "You know, the door that isn't my room or the bathroom?"

Clearly Sherlock had deemed that to be thoroughly unimportant. Instead he peered down at the floorboards, as if to inspect John's work.

"One word of 'help' from you and I swear to God you are going in that bin as well."

With a surprising amount of acceptance, Sherlock walked away a little and knelt on the sofa, staring over the back of it at John. "When will you be done?" he asked, sounding annoyed.

"Cleaning up your mess? Think it's a full time occupation at this rate," John lay on the floor to get a better look at the hole.

"I have numerous poisons if you wish to use those?" Sherlock offered.

Tempting. John looked over his shoulder and stared at Sherlock. "How about putty?"

"Must we do this now?" Sherlock groused, looking at his watch in a way that was obviously fake, if for no other reason than the fact that Sherlock had the most accurate internal clock known to man. "We have things to do."

John lifted himself onto his knees. "If there is a rat in here when he get back…"

"Yes?" Sherlock tilted his head, "please, regale me with your latest threat. The last one was appalling."

It was a risk, but John went for it anyway. "I will blow raspberries in your mouth everytime you kiss me for at least two days."

Utter and complete bafflement crossed Sherlock's face. Grinning, John stepped forward, picked up Sherlock's hand and blew onto the back of it, creating a very satisfyingly stupid noise from the vibrations. Looking almost horrified at the idea, Sherlock pulled his hand back.

"That is not pleasant," he scolded John.

"It's not meant to be," John put his hand on his hips. "Rats aren't pleasant either."

But Sherlock was still inspecting his hand and John was almost sure he heard the word 'slobber' in the muttered rant. Eventually, Sherlock looked up and rolled his eyes.

"I blame you for this," he declared, stomping off to his room, because apparently everything in the world ended up in there are one time or another.

"And I you," John called after him happily, relieved that there hadn't been a hint of fear in with the earlier horror.

* * *

"Where are we going?" John asked as they walked down the street together, munching into a Hot Cross Bun as they moved.

"For a day out," Sherlock announced.

There was an odd waver to his voice that John rarely heard and he fought the urge to smile. Sherlock was nervous, sweetly so, and privately John vowed that even if Sherlock had decided to take them on a mass exhumation he would act delighted.

Or be delighted. Sherlock's enthusiasm was oddly contagious when it didn't involve a lack of tea.

They walked, which was an oddity in itself. Usually Sherlock was in such a rush to get somewhere that they dashed around the city in taxis and raced each other down the streets. The sedate, companionable pace was enjoyable and occasionally prompted the odd anecdote.

"What are we doing here?" John asked, eventually, as they walked among the office blocks, utterly confused at what Sherlock could possibly want to do in this part of the city.

"I…" Sherlock just nodded at a building. "In here."

* * *

John was relatively sure he hadn't been aware the museum of London actually existed. Or even what the hell would possibly be in there.

Sherlock was looking more and more uncomfortable.

"You hate museums," John said slowly as they stood outside the entrance having walked across the bridge. "They don't let you touch things and end up being endless pottery."

"To understand crimes committed here you need to understand the city," Sherlock said awkwardly.

There was a running joke at Scotland Yard (one that would probably end when they found out about John and Sherlock) that Sherlock had a love affair with London. Ever since he'd had a case in Sussex and complained endlessly about the farm animals when he'd returned and had the seemed oddly fixated with stroking a wall they had teased him about it. And, given it was one of the sweeter jokes about Sherlock, Lestrade let that one go free.

"Go on," John nodded at the entrance, "Haven't played tourist for years."

That statement Sherlock frowned at.

* * *

Within five minutes John was hooked. There was something about having it so focussed, about knowing that everything in the museum came from close by instead of being a jumbled mess of objects that was fascinating. Stories of how the objects were found, maps showing the significance.

Sherlock kept looking ahead and then back at John, oddly patient for once, but reminiscent of a child eager to get to the good Christmas presents.

"Do you want to-"

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "It's interesting watching what you look at and what you ignore."

Grinning, John slipped his hand into Sherlock's.

They wandered at their leisure; it was quiet enough that sometimes they had a whole section to themselves.

Eventually, Sherlock stiffened with eagerness as they got close to whatever it was he had brought John to see. And, when John spotted the exhibition, he couldn't help his own eager reaction.

Doctors, Dissection and Resurrection Men.

John could vaguely remember from a brief period at home in between tours, the news that archaeologists had excavated a burial ground at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. There had been bodies that had been wired and used for teaching, autopsies, dissections.

They were like kids in a sweet shop. To see how surgeons had been taught, to recognise the starts of some of the procedures he'd been taught in medical school and had used in the field when there had been a lack of equipment was incredible. For Sherlock, well…John almost laughed thinking of his earlier thought about exhumations.

Not far from it though.

He'd forgotten sometimes how much he'd loved being a surgeon. It often seemed secondary to his army career but it had been what had driven him to go into service in the first place and ignore the whole 'signing his life away to the forces in exchange for course fees being paid for.

Half of what he knew was probably already out of date by now, but Sherlock seemed genuinely interested in his explanations, occasionally even piping in with the odd question that made John pause and ponder and then had the pair of them hunting around for an explanation.

He doubted the exhibition leader had as much fun as they did given that Sherlock then grilled her about every single aspect they were still unsure of but as days went it was brilliant.

* * *

He could tell Sherlock was trying not to laugh.

Not entirely sure how he had managed it, John was, for once, on top and Sherlock was topless, which was always a bonus. With the cold noodles left over from dinner, John was trying to trace Sherlock's bones.

Not the easiest thing to do with slippery noodles and to his frustration as soon as he had ninety percent of them fixed in the right place, three would slip onto the bed and ruin it all.

"How am I meant to explain a dissection if they keep moving?" John asked Sherlock seriously which caused another snort of laughter.

"I believe this may be doomed," Sherlock chuckled.

Probably. Conceding defeat (and knowing that Sherlock probably knew just as much, if not more about the subject) John dipped his head to the noodles resting on Sherlock's splayed out fingers and sucked.

Sherlock's breath hitched as John moved onto the next one. When he looked up there seemed to be some odd sort of battle going on behind those grey eyes.

Shifting his weight off of Sherlock, John focused on the hand, sucking up all the noodles and then carefully licking them clean.

There was still a heartbreaking amount of hesitation lurking beyond the surface.

"I ate your phalanges," John said in an apologetic tone, trying to make his face as serious as possible. Sherlock stared at him, clearly shocked and then relaxed completely, laughing and holding out his other hand to John imperiously.

Not wanting to see the hesitation again, John made it far more playful this time and Sherlock stayed relaxed, seeming dazed but delighted with what they were doing.

There was still an unsure air to him when John straddled him again to deal with the noodles on his chest, but Sherlock almost seemed eager to see what John would do next.

Though by that point his 'ribs' had mostly slipped off to the side.

"I think we ruined your bed spread," John said, sighing down at the mess.

"You are truly finding the most ingenious ways to ensure we sleep in your bed," Sherlock muttered shifting a little on the pillow. His hands were hesitantly settling around John's hips.

We.

Suddenly losing the playful air, John stared down at Sherlock, desperately wanting to say something but knowing that it wasn't anywhere close to being the time to say it. Instead he plucked up what he could of the noodles and smiled tightly. "I'll pop these in the bin. Probably covered in formaldehyde knowing your bed," he said as he awkwardly climbed off.

As he went into the kitchen and tipped the noodles from his hands into the bin he could hear a small thud of something being kicked. Feeling utterly useless, John washed his hands, staring at nothing in particular and trying to decide in his mind whether he'd pushed too hard or backed off to quickly.

"I'm having a shower," Sherlock almost snarled as he barged through the kitchen.

* * *

Part of John wanted to change Sherlock's sheets so that he would have an easy slide into bed, but as much as Sherlock seemed to have free reign in John's room, John doubted it was a good idea to wander around Sherlock's. If nothing else it probably would be a hazard to health.

Instead he went up, got changed and left the lamp on as he ducked down into the covers. He left the door ajar knowing that Sherlock would pick up on the hints but that he could ignore them easily enough if he chose to.

The shower went on for an age and John couldn't help but listen to it, warring within himself. He knew Sherlock needed space but it felt like he was just abandoning him or confirming any self-deprecating thoughts that might be flying around Sherlock's head.

In the end John gripped the pillow, trying to anchor himself to the mattress in order to not fuss at the bathroom door.

The silence after the shower was deafening. Then the door opened and he heard the floorboards creak as Sherlock stopped outside John's door, clearly taking in the open door and the beckoning light.

Then the top step let out its distinctive squeak as Sherlock made his way down and John winced, frustrated with himself as he turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

* * *

He was sound asleep when he felt cold arm slide along his side. The sensation confused him and he mumbled something.

The bed was shifting and a solid presence was pressed against his back. "Go back to sleep," a deep voice said softly as the body behind curled up around him and a kiss was pressed to the nape of his neck.

"You okay?" John mumbled, trying to find a better position on the pillow.

"Go to sleep," the voice said again.

"Dreaming 'bout bones," John felt the need to explain that.

There was a small chuckle and another kiss. "You'd best return to them then," Sherlock suggested with a smile in his voice.

So he did.

* * *

Author's Note

The London Museum is probably the best one I've ever been to (mainly because I can't do lots of bitty sections wthout a coherant plan. I get organised about the strangest things!) The exhibition is on at the moment and is apparently fantastic for anyone who's around. Crossing fingers and toes to go soon :)


	9. Chapter 9

Angst ahead for this chapter and the next!

* * *

Weddings were painful. Sherlock clearly had the best way of dealing with such things and had just raised an unimpressed eyebrow when John had mentioned his cousin was getting married. Feeling awkward John had started to phrase the invitation when Sherlock had snorted, shot John a disbelieving look and muttered something derogatory about the bagpipes.

Unsurprisingly, after dealing with Harry for a weekend while surrounded by family and alcohol, his leg was killing him and his head was pounding from the long train ride back.

Just as his foot hit the landing he was backed into the wall and kissed within an inch of his life.

Not really sure what else to do, John just went with it, enjoying the sensation and trying to swallow down his own frustration with his weekend, slightly emboldened by the fact that this sudden wave of affection from Sherlock was unlikely to last or go any further.

Sherlock made an approving noise, his lips brushing down against John's jaw, with nips and kisses as John tipped his head back against the wall.

"Missed you," Sherlock said into his skin.

The light behind John was bright and harsh and god help him all he wanted to do was go upstairs, have a shower and shut the world out for a few hours to forget the weekend.

Sherlock's hands were sweeping down his chest and down to his belt.

"Stop."

Sherlock froze and slowly stepped back, looking completely lost and strangely vulnerable. Tired, though he was, part of John knew that he should say something, reassure him in some way.

But God help him for being a wanker, he knew his temper was short and the idea that he would lose it with Sherlock was unacceptable.

"I need a shower," John said, adjusting his bag onto his shoulder. "Just give me an hour or so."

Sherlock backed off further, his expression completely closed off.

"Sherlock-" John started to relent slightly, then his eyes caught sight of the bombsight behind Sherlock.

Their living room was a mess of paper, coffee cups and soot and John felt his own tenuous hold on his temper vanish.

"For Christ sake," John snapped. "Would you stop deleting the existence of the fucking cleaning closet."

Slowly, Sherlock's head turned to the living room and tilted as if seeing the mess for the first time.

"Yeah," John groused, stomping over to the next flight of stairs, "Did you not notice? Want me to believe it was fairies messing up the flat?"

"Is that a homosexual slur?" Sherlock asked.

John paused on the third step, clenched his jaw and continued up.

* * *

After boiling himself in the shower for half an hour John sat on the edge of the bath and put his head in his hands, trying to massage the headache away.

Harry hadn't been the best person to talk to. She had been drunk, pissed off with life and was quickly becoming bitter. It was like she was draining him emotionally and, while he was sure she meant well, her own opinions about the idea of John, with his own issues, entering into a relationship with Sherlock, who had plenty of issues, had been plain. There had been endless self-important lectures about his anger issues interfering with Sherlock's recovery, the condescending remarks about John's own 'love of guilt' and the bitter snarks about John's love of being 'the good one'.

It was blessedly quiet and slowly John could feel the sheer frustration dwindling. There was an odd relief in having the door locked and not having to talk to anyone or bite his tongue to keep the peace or worry about anyone. He could indulge his own inner rants until the tension started to ebb.

What the hell had Sherlock been thinking? John had been so sure he would be able to just go in, shower, change and take a breath before they talked. After all how often did-

His heart suddenly dropped through his stomach in horror.

How often did Sherlock greet him with a kiss?

Never.

That step, that huge step and John had just…ignored it. Dismissed it. Shown frustration and nonchalance towards him.

Fuck!

* * *

The violin was playing when John walked down the stairs, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Despite feeling guilty he had waited, wanting to be sure that the frustrated air had vanished and he didn't rush down in a panic that would make things worse.

The sight the greeted him wasn't the surprising. It was a little tidier; Sherlock had clearly attempted to make an effort, but thankfully hadn't been so hurt that he'd felt the need to thoroughly clean (had the room been spotless John probably would have thrown himself on the ground to beg for forgiveness). Sherlock stood at the window, violin under his chin and the tune was distant, slow and sad.

John waited in the doorway, studying the sight of Sherlock and wishing he were half as good at deducing facts form what he saw. Sherlock was hardly fragile but John was well aware he'd made an almighty error earlier. But it was difficult to see how much it had hurt Sherlock or what Sherlock was thinking.

"Your sister," Sherlock said suddenly. "I assume she was her usual hypocritical judgemental self?"

"Not an excuse," John said, staying where he was.

Sherlock paused, his bow hovering thoughtfully. Then the bow drew across the strings once more, the music dipping into a slightly angrier version of what he'd been playing before.

What was he meant to say to make it better? Despite opening his mouth, the right words didn't seem to magically appear and, in the end, John just sighed.

"I missed you too," he said suddenly. "But you'd have hated the wedding."

"Obviously."

"Sherlock-"

"I would beg for his attention at the end," Sherlock's voice suddenly lashed out. "I believe he found it amusing."

Nausea filled John's throat and something pricked uncomfortably at his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said frankly after a few aborted attempts at saying something, anything to try and repair that horrific idea.

"Why? You didn't know?" It was easy enough to hear the anger in Sherlock's voice, but impossible to tell who that anger was directed at. "Why would you assume that? You were tired and stupid. Most people are."

John almost bit his tongue to keep from snapping.

"At the start he'd barely let me think." Sherlock said seemingly giving up on playing as he stared at something outside. "There was hardly a moment to even form the word 'no'."

John hoped Mycroft had made Garret suffer for hours. Hoped his bones had been shattered and he'd tasted his own blood. Hating the thought, he just shook his head.

"Oddly fitting isn't it?" Sherlock asked, tapping the bow against the window pane. "You were doing a perfect example of him at the end and I did a marvellous impression of him at the start."

"You stopped," John said suddenly firm and walking forward. There was absolutely no way he was letting Sherlock indulge that train of thought. "You had missed me, you did nothing wrong-"

Sherlock's head turned fractionally and a soft snort could be heard. "Clearly," came the sarcastic reply.

"Fuck it," John hissed, "We did nothing wrong. You missed me, I wanted half an hour to myself. It was just shit timing."

"Your language gets more and more vulgar the more you try to take control of a situation," Sherlock observed calmly. "Do soldiers not obey unless they're being sworn at?"

"Don't go there," John snapped. "We are not talking about my past here Sherlock-"

"No," Sherlock agreed, turning, his chin stubbornly set. "Say it then. Tell me what we are talking about, tell me what niggling pathetic problem I drag into this relationship every time we do this."

"It's not pathetic-"

"You manage yours," Sherlock hissed enviously. "I have to give instructions because you're too thick to see the signs, have our own version of the bloody green cross code because my brain cannot grasp the logic behind insert tab a into slot b."

"It's not logical," John yelled in exasperation, gesturing angrily. "It's never logical. And it's never that simple-"

"It's fucking-"

"No it isn't," John stepped forward, pointing, "And you damn well know it isn't else you'd be showing me the same disinterest you showed Victor."

"Does that make you feel better to believe that?" Sherlock sneered, cruel suddenly. "Is that what you tell yourself when you hear me talking about me being willing in his bed?"

"No, I tell myself it's because out of the three of us, he's the only one you could never love."

Sherlock went white. Utterly and completely white and staggered back, shaking.

"Sher-" John broke off and stepped back. "I shouldn't…I shouldn't have said that."

Sherlock shook his head, looking as if he were struggling to swallow. "I didn't…" he looked away, obviously confused. "I don't-"

"Stupid thing to say," John said quickly. "Wrong and stupid."

Sherlock's eyes raised to his, "I…No-one is that stupid," he hissed. "No-one is meant to feel that," he snarled the words out, "about the man that-" he broke off, still looking distraught.

What the hell had he done. "It's not wrong for you to feel-"

"Wrong?" Sherlock sneered, "Coming from the man who whinges that he had to watch a nineteen year old die because he couldn't move his leg?"

That stole the breath from him, hurt more than he imagined it would, even as his brain knew that Sherlock was just lashing out because he was terrified of what John had implied "My mistake," John said, backing away. "I…my mistake," he felt suddenly useless and drained.

"Yes," Sherlock advanced. "So desperate to play the hero and pretend to be needed that you'll do anything, put up with anything to feel like you're necessary."

It took everything John had to press his lips together, to keep himself aware of the words that wanted to spill out of his mouth and batter into Sherlock. His silence seemed to jolt Sherlock back to cognisant thought and he looked like a man who had just staggered out of a storm

They stood, staring at each other for an age. Slowly, Sherlock's shoulders started to sag away from anger and into that unsure air again. It was hard, forcing himself to stay in the same room, forcing himself to stay quiet and wait. Painful and hard when all John wanted to do was fight back.

Sherlock's chin trembled and then clenched furiously.

"Sherlock-"

"I give him too much power," Sherlock whispered. "Even here, with you, I let him in."

"You're expecting too much-"

"Don't," Sherlock snapped, suddenly pacing. "Don't. He…I…"

"Sherlock-"

"I knew," Sherlock hissed. "You walked up the stairs, you gait was off, your leg hurt. You paused at the door in relief once it was shut, you were pulling back when I started to move down to your belt. Still I did it, I wanted to please you-"

"It's fine-"

"I did what I would have to please him!" The sentence was thundered out. "Not you. You would have wanted tea, a bath drawn to be indulgent because you wouldn't think to do that, even when your leg was hurting and you wanted to take your weight off of it. You wanted calm, solace, comfort. I knew it and still-"

To John's shock, Sherlock seemed on the verge on frustrated tears.

Taking a risk, John stepped forward and pulled Sherlock to him, wrapping his arms around his partner. Sherlock bowed his head to his shoulder, his hands coming up to clutch at John's t-shirt.

"I don't understand," Sherlock whispered into his shoulder. "I don't understand it."

"You're nervous," John soothed. "Everyone falls back on…" he hesitated and then sighed, "their comfort zone."

Sherlock lifted his head.

"Not comfort zone," John shifted, "I…you fall back on what you know is what I meant."

"Such as a verbal assault?" Sherlock said quietly. "John I-"

"Shut up," John swatted at him. "You have nothing on my subconscious you daft berk."

But Sherlock grabbed at him even firmer, "I don't…I didn't mean any of it."

"I know," John tried to smile reassuringly. "It's really…it doesn't matter."

Unconvinced, Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyes still dancing over John's face and still not moving away.

"I did miss you," John said quietly. "You might have shut Harry up quicker than me."

"I would have," Sherlock couldn't seem to let go of him. "I dislike you being away."

"The skull didn't help?" John asked.

"It's terrible at making tea," Sherlock complained.

Amused, John stroked a hand down Sherlock's arm. "It's always been bad at making tea," he nudged Sherlock gently.

"It's not satisfying to lie in bed with," Sherlock remedied.

"Ah," John nodded. "Yeah, they're not the best at that."

Sherlock smiled faintly, more acknowledging the attempt than because he was actually amused. He stepped back, hands tracing John's shoulders as if to commit him to memory.

"Come to bed," John said softly. "Come to sleep."

"I want to think," Sherlock replied, shaking his head. Yet he couldn't seem to take his hands off of John.

"You don't have to stay," John offered.

Sherlock lifted his hands off of John and then frowned, clearly frustrated with himself. After a moment he nodded.

"I'll be up in a bit," he said quietly.

* * *

He wasn't. When John woke the next morning there was no sign he'd come up while John had been asleep and there was no sign of him in the flat.

* * *

_Are you following him?_

_Leave him alone. He needs space MH_

_Are you following him?_

_No. I'm with him. Leave it alone. MH_

John threw the phone at the sofa and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Shit.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: More angst and descriptions of abuse. You have been warned.

* * *

It was four o clock by the time the car pulled up outside.

_In. MH_

* * *

When they arrived, it was at an old industrial district, rusted from disuse and surrounded by what had become marshland. They had sat in the car in utter silence; Mycroft doing a fairly good impression of Sherlock's expression when he had a niggling puzzle to solve. Taking the hint, John had stared out of the window most of the ride, watching the city fade to what looked like something out of a gothic novel.

"Christ sakes Mycroft, if you want to kill me couldn't we have done it in London?" John muttered as the car slowed to a stop.

Mycroft stroked his umbrella, "If I wanted to kill you John, you'd be dead."

Nodding bitterly, John opened the car door with absolutely no finesse and slammed it shut behind him. Opposite, on the other side, Mycroft elegantly stood and gazed at him over the roof, then nodded his head in the direction of a figure in the distance.

Even with the fading light John could tell it was Sherlock, sitting on a wall.

Unsure, John glanced back at Mycroft who looked unusually sad as he stared at his brother. Then, as if suddenly aware that John's attention had shifted, Mycroft shook out of the emotion and shot John a fierce look.

"Tread carefully Doctor," Mycroft advised, "This is dangerous ground."

* * *

The car pulled away as John stared at Sherlock and slowly made his way over. When he was close Sherlock tilted his head in acknowledgement but made no other move, his eyes fixed upon the ground beyond.

John sat beside him, as close as he dared and stared at what Sherlock was looking at; a blank expanse of bog-land. They sat in silence, the wind whistling in between them as Sherlock's gaze remained utterly fixated on a spot.

There wasn't a single part of John that didn't want to ask if Sherlock was okay, but one look at the steeled jaw and narrowed eyes told him it might not be appreciated. In response Sherlock nodded, just enough to be seen and John sighed, a tight feeling starting to form in his chest.

"He was my aunt's second husband," Sherlock said, his voice sounding so deep after the pitch of the wind. He sat up a little, as if the posture helped in some way. "She was frivolous. Everyone remarked how good he was to put up with her, how patient he was. And after…they said she must have been blind." He seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment, perhaps examining a new line of enquiry before shaking the digression away. "I was twelve when they married."

John held his breath and Sherlock, sensing it, glanced at him briefly. "I don't believe he planned it then. My family was influential enough that he likely indulged his…tastes elsewhere using that influence. He was opportunistic rather than a strategist…I believe that's why I never picked up on it…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "But Mycroft was away at university and I saw him as…interesting," Sherlock shifted. "When I moved out he took an interest, talked to me without lecturing.

"I…He…" Sherlock frowned at the memory. "We progressed shortly after that. As if it were some grand forbidden affair," Sherlock laughed without humour, shaking his head. "I was painfully thick. Stupid. I believed I offered him something that my Aunt did not.

"You said once that I acted as if I had been trained." Sherlock drew in a breath, "That was…perceptive. If I objected or hesitated he would pull away, or lose interest. Tell me I was spoiled and selfish. Hardly an unfamiliar set of character traits associated with me."

"There's a difference," John said quietly, voice half lost to the wind.

Sherlock nodded. "An arbitrary one," he sneered. "You can imagine how much I hate that."

In his head, John winced at the image of a younger, vulnerable Sherlock lost and confused at the illogical nature of his abuse and because of that, refusing to see it for what it was. It was all he could do to clench his fists and just keep still.

"I obeyed," Sherlock sounded scornful. "I wanted to be good; I knew he had a vast wealth of experience and I despised the idea that I wouldn't match up to expectations. I had never struggled with anything in my life and-" he broke off, clearly now struggling with the story. "Regardless. I was obedient in bed, eager to please. When things started to get more…adventurous, I was told that we were simply progressing onto the next level as I was no longer some fumbling virgin."

John let out a very careful breath.

"I imagine you can picture…the props we used, scenarios, that sort of thing. He was addicted to power, loved the idea that he could control me when others couldn't. That he could have me greet him, desperate for attention and willing to do whatever it took to get it. It would amuse him to toy with me, to 'shake things up'. And…" Sherlock visibly steeled himself, "I would go to him because I was lonely, dreading that he would kiss me because it meant the coast was clear and the evening would be…exuberant." He laughed, "Yet still I went."

"I objected severely once. He had some guests, friends from work. Four of them and he wanted me to…" Sherlock shook his head. "I refused. Violently. He didn't speak to me for six weeks. I was alone, everyone whining that I was so ungrateful to him-"

"Jesus," John whispered.

"The day he finally made contact was…if I could delete that meeting I would. Humiliating is too polite a word for what he did. And on my way out I bumped into Margaret, Mycroft's assistant at the time. Soon after Mycroft stepped in."

"He filmed it," John muttered, still not entirely sure he agreed with it.

Sherlock nodded, clearly aware of the film's existence, "Did you watch it?" he asked nonchalantly.

"Jesus no," John hissed, horrified at the idea. "That would…no."

"It likely has a wealth of data-"

"No," John said, so absolute that Sherlock blinked at him, then leaned back with a nod, staring out again.

"And Victor?" John asked, part of him hissing at the idea of asking yet desperately wanting to know.

A line furrowed in Sherlock's forehead; his thoughts had clearly been nowhere near Victor. "University. He was a friend of someone down the hall. I despised most of them and they weren't overly fond of me. He felt guilty, talked to me and then found some attraction." Sherlock shrugged, "When he discovered my sexual history he became…I believe he thought we were in some dramatic love story. It was dull beyond belief."

"But you put up with it?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "It was a relief. I didn't care about him and he was in love with the idea. I used him, he used me and sex was dull."

He couldn't help himself from asking. "And me?"

Sherlock's lips tightened and for the longest time, John thought he wouldn't answer. "Life without you would be…exceedingly unpleasant."

"I wouldn't-"

"If someone is unhappy in a relationship, they walk away. That is your right."

John sighed, "Yes but I would use it-"

"Again. Arbitrary," Sherlock stared out again.

The wind whistled through him, making John shiver and look around. There was nothing around; the buildings were wrecks, the landscape unwelcoming and bare. "Why on earth are we here?"

"Is it not obvious?" Sherlock asked.

Why the hell would it be?

Then suddenly, as if hit by Sherlockian inspiration, John remembered his first thoughts on arriving.

Good place for a murder.

"This is where-"

"Yes." Sherlock gave away absolutely nothing. "Mycroft is a little excessive at times about his locations."

"Is Garret buried here?" John asked slowly, wanting to be absolutely clear that they were talking about the same thing.

"Scattered," Sherlock said emotionlessly.

"He was cremated?" John asked.

"No."

You had to hand it to Mycroft; when he did something, he did it damned well. "Do you come here often?"

"I've never asked before." Sherlock tilted his head, "I didn't ask this time. I was furious with him."

"When he killed Garret-"

"Today!" Sherlock snapped. "Mycroft swooped in and dealt with the matter without any regard to my own inclinations-"

"Sherlock-"

"I never….I never faced him again. One moment he was there and the next…I…I need to know. I want to know how much he intended, how much he planned…I wouldn't even need to talk to him now, just see his face, his shoes, hic clothes-"

"You know all of that," John said quietly. "You know what he wore, what he looked like. You know the answers Sherlock. You've said it enough times."

That gained him Sherlock's full attention. "Have I?"

"Amused."

Sherlock flinched, but his eyes narrowed in thought. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

"I…" Sherlock shook his head. "How can I…How could it have meant so little and affected me so much?"

John drew in a breath.

"Don't," Sherlock hissed. "I was his…trained circus animal, amusing and obedient. Always coming back for more." At that he threw himself off the wall and started to pace. Worryingly he let out an ugly laugh. "The first time I deep-throated him I choked and coughed and gasped for breath. When we were finished he was smiling. I thought…he was amused wasn't he? The smile before laughter because it had been funny to see what I would do."

It hurt to hear. John was almost sure he'd prefer to be shot again than hear this, but god knew Sherlock needed to say it because whatever it was he was running on would burn out soon and John wasn't entirely sure what would be left.

Sherlock continued to pace, muttering under his breath; words that were far too quiet for John to hear, but the tone made him want to close his eyes, hating the sight of Sherlock caught in such a maelstrom.

By the time Sherlock stumbled, they were both freezing and the sky was dark enough that everything was shadowed. When Sherlock suddenly started to shiver, John hopped off the wall and went to him.

"I was nothing to him," Sherlock breathed and the utter confusion in his voice was heart-breaking.

"Then here's your difference," John said, trying to cup his face. "You are everything to me."

"He fooled me," John couldn't quite tell if Sherlock was upset of baffled by that idea.

There was nothing John could say in response to that. Instead he pulled Sherlock close, wanting to warm him up, hide him away and keep him safe. To his shock, Sherlock went with the movement and then slumped on to him.

"Have you slept?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock shook his head against John's shoulder.

In the distance headlights were approaching. It was probably Mycroft's car but-

"It's Mycroft," Sherlock said without moving from John's shoulder. Then he took a long deep breath against John's skin.

* * *

The car was empty but for the driver, but Sherlock just got in the back. Once in the light, the exhaustion was painfully clear on his face.

John got in beside him, trying not to overthink how much distance he was leaving between him and Sherlock. The sudden heat made him shiver, suddenly very aware of just how cold he had been. Next to him, Sherlock was the picture of a bedraggled man; his hair damp from the air, face white and red from his emotions, eyes rimmed and bright.

Watching him, John looked away and out the window again, hesitating, before looking back and holding his hand in the space between them for Sherlock to take if he wanted.

Twenty minutes into their journey, Sherlock took it.


	11. Chapter 11

This is surprisingly finished! Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews and to everyone who has read this. I hope you enjoy the end!

* * *

Sherlock's latest obsession seems to be staring at John. And wasn't the normal type of staring; John had been sure Sherlock's gaze couldn't get more intense and yet, there was proof that once again Sherlock Holmes had defied expectation.

This stare was obtrusive, fixated and uncomfortable, as if Sherlock was plotting the best way to peel back John's eyelids, scoop out the eyeballs and see into his brain.

"Must you?" John asked as Sherlock leaned in even closer.

"Does it annoy you?"

Was that meant to be a trick question? "Just a bit."

"Do you wish me to go away?"

There was a distinct possibility that he was being tested.

"No. I just want you to aim your eyes at something else," John stared back down at the paper, folding it so that it was more comfortable to read. "One of your bloody experiments perhaps."

The stare just came closer.

"Do you want something?" John asked, trying to ignore the urge to shield away.

"No."

Really? John wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock wasn't being deeply insulting by assuming he was thick enough to buy that.

Sherlock hadn't been exactly absent from the flat. More he'd been…distant. Waiting. As if John was about to stumble into a different personality at any given moment. The worst thing was John could feel his temper starting to prickle from the constant observation.

The next time he looked up Sherlock was so close that John wouldn't be surprised to see him doing a thorough inspection of the inner workings of John's bloody ear.

"You have got to be doing this on purpose," John sighed. "What's the matter?" he asked, thudding the paper onto his lap.

"I'm observing you."

For the love of God almighty.

"Why?" John asked wearily, almost despairing of finding an answer that wouldn't make him want to pull out his own hair.

"To see if there is anything I should have noticed."

"Such as?" Even John can hear the danger in his own voice.

Sherlock hissed and pulled back. "Now you're insulted," he sulked.

"If I have managed to fool you to this point do you really think that exhaling all over me will reveal my secret desire to be a complete tosser?" John stood angrily. "And given that there is only room for one of those in here, I will bow to you for that."

"I've upset you," Sherlock sat back to his side of the sofa (finally).

The slightly wounded tone was enough to make John pause and reassess the situation. "I just…I get it, but…" He turned, pressing his back to the door to look at Sherlock. "You…I guess it hurts that you think I could. And I get why you think it," John said hastily when Sherlock, wearing a peeved expression, opened his mouth, "But still, it's an illogical reaction. Sentiment," he added with a self-deprecating shrug.

Sherlock nodded.

Probably best that he went up, John thought reaching for the knob. Relax, have a shower…a cold shower for what must be the hundredth time this-

"I will not be penetrated."

"Right." John opened the door. "Well, you do what experiment you want…"

It was only half way up the stairs that the words slide into place.

Embarrassed, John winced and hissed at himself.

God, he was going to have to go back down and admit he was beyond thick.

With the air of a reluctant child about to be scolded, John skulked back down and into the living room where Sherlock was sat up properly, a smile twitching at the edges of his lips.

"Can we pretend I didn't do that," John asked, closing the door.

"Do I need to explain further-"

"No." John walked over and then hesitated between the desk chair and the sofa. "No, I was just…No."

Feeling Sherlock's gaze, John sat down, pulling the desk chair closer so they could talk easier.

"So is this the discussion about what you don't like?" John asked hesitantly.

"Possibly." Sherlock looked so defensive that John imagined touching him would be akin to reaching out for a spooked hedgehog right now.

"Okay," John rubbed his hands together. "Um…not sure how to…" Fuck it. "Giving or receiving the penetration?"

Sherlock stared at him as if he'd gone mad. "Why would you wish to do that?"

It's a pity Mycroft did such a good job with Garret. Perhaps he wouldn't mind digging up a foot so John can ground it into powder. "Receive?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I…I've not done it often." Three times. "But I enjoyed the last few times. First was just weird."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"In a normal, 'there's something in me' way." John clarified. "I'd…I'd like us to try it that way one day."

Inexplicably, Sherlock looks lost at the idea, but at the same time his eyes lit up a little.

Baby steps with that one then.

"And um…" God, now was not that time to be delicate. "Fingering?" John hated the fact that he sounded like a fifteen year old chatting about last night's party. "Is that in or out."

Sherlock snorted, seeming tickled despite himself at the pun. "Possibly. I…possibly."

John nodded and waited, hoping Sherlock would offer some suggestions. But Sherlock, utter wanker that he could be, just sat back and fixed John with an expectant gaze.

"Are you gonna make me go through a list?" John asked.

"I'm finding it mildly…less…" Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, as if his feelings in their conversation were barely relevant.

"Uck," John glared up at the ceiling. "You are such a bastard sometimes," he complained.

"Is that the end of the list?" Sherlock asked with some derision.

"Rimming?"

"No."

"Blow job?"

"Yes."

"Hand job."

"Yes."

"I…John shrugged. "I think…we can work with that."

"That is a terribly short list John."

"Bite me," John suggested as he stood.

"Possibly."

Despite himself, John can't help flashing Sherlock an amused grin.

* * *

Two nights later, for the first time since their conversation on the moor, Sherlock followed John upstairs.

There had been that odd moment when John had suddenly been aware that all the creeks on the stairs weren't being made by him. He turned, stared at Sherlock, and then continued walking up, his throat suddenly dry.

There was a possibility lurking in John's mind that he might have on occasion taken the wrong approach to this. Just because he wanted Sherlock to tell him what he was comfortable with did not mean that he should make Sherlock ask for things.

He needed to trust Sherlock would say stop.

In his room, John swallowed deeply, then turned to Sherlock and wrapped a hand around his nape, pulling him down for a kiss, slowly. Enough time for Sherlock's lip to form the word or for John to feel tension or reluctance in the muscles under his fingers.

But Sherlock moved with ease, almost as if he were hungry for the contact.

* * *

A whispered plea for permission left John's lips.

They were naked. Both of them, for the first time. And, for the first time, John's lips were hovering over Sherlock's cock. Above him, Sherlock was up on his elbows, staring down and looking oddly young while doing it.

There was a hesitant nod.

Slow then.

A loud gasp echoed from above when John took him fully in. He stroked the hip under his fingers reassuringly.

When he looked up, Sherlock was still watching him. There was an uncertain look in his eyes that made John pull back.

"Okay?" he asked, keeping his fingers moving upon the delicate skin at the join of torso and thigh.

Sherlock nodded, quickly rearranging the pillows so he was sat up without the elbows.

When John ducked his head once again, Sherlock let out a pleased sound that made John smile. Relaxing a little, he started to just focus on the task at hand. It had been a good few years since he had last sucked a cock and the noises Sherlock made were lovely-

A hand ghosted over his hair, as if fearful of being there. John looked up and met Sherlock's eyes when the man dropped the hand away.

John winked up at him, an act that made Sherlock gape at him, then smile, and then chuckle. The hand returned, far more sure of itself now as it fondly carded through John's hair in a way that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with affection.

Taking a slight risk, John sped up his ministration, keeping his eyes on Sherlock who shifted and closed his eyes as if in bliss. Seconds later he opened them, a little dazed looking, as his breathing started to speed up.

Feeling at ease for the first time, John just let himself enjoy the moment, the sounds, the tastes and the textures.

Under him, Sherlock started to tense, his breathing ragged. His cheeks were still flushed with desire and his eyes were closed, lips pressed together.

John tapped his hip deliberately to get his attention. Sherlock blinked his eyes open and his gaze found its way to John's.

John raised an eyebrow, hoping that Sherlock's deductive abilities would translate it as 'everything all right?'

Or words to that effect.

"Can…" Sherlock licked his lips. "May I orgasm?"

May he…

John pulled back and sat back on his heels, staring down at Sherlock who was now watching him with a truly odd mixture of anger, fear and confusion. John needed to say something quickly…

Nothing was coming. The image of Sherlock, younger, begging to be allowed to-

John scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Is that a no?" Sherlock spat dangerously.

"It's a 'you shouldn't have to ask'," John replied, voice muffled by his hand.

"It's courtesy."

"That's not-" John dropped his hand. "Courtesy is not grabbing your partner to force them to stay where they are or doing an announcement to give them a bit of warning before you shoot. Courtesy is not asking for permission to enjoy it."

Sherlock sighed and dropped an arm over his face, the lines of his body still seeming angry.

And delicious.

But mostly angry.

"Would you expect me to ask to be allowed."

There was a very long pause and then, under the arm, Sherlock shook his head. "No," he replied in a resigned voice. "I would not."

"Look," John sighed, "I know it can be a game. And a fun one. But, it's agreed beforehand and it's something you do when the trust is there-"

"I trust you," Sherlock sounded beyond frustrated.

"You're starting to," John concedes slowly.

Sherlock slid the arm off of his face. "I would like to finish this," he said with an angry jab at his dick.

"You sure?"

The look Sherlock gave him could kill a man at twenty feet. "Short of shoving your head down, how would you like me to convince you?"

"Politely?" John suggested with a pointed look.

With an unimpressed look Sherlock shifted, "I do not do polite John, be serious."

"Nicely?" John asked, trying not to grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Plebeian word," he scoffed.

"Romantically," John teased, leaning down to ghost his breath over Sherlock's cock. It was a little less hard than it had been second ago but it gave an eager twitch at John's proximity.

"Etiquette lessons," Sherlock replied fondly, clearly remembering their earlier conversation.

Laughing, John nuzzled Sherlock's inner thigh. "You're the genius, you suggest something then."

A hand scooped up his chin. Startled, John looked up at Sherlock.

"You are a wonder John."

"Jesus, don't go overboard," John wriggled out of the grip and settled down to start licking at the head of Sherlock's cock in way that elicited a strangled whine from the man.

"I mean it," Sherlock replied in a tight voice. "My wonder."

My love, John wanted to reply.

Still too soon.

With a pleased noise, John resumed his earlier actions, relieved when Sherlock seemed to tentatively squirm under him and then buck his hips.

"You enjoy this?" Sherlock breathed.

John nodded.

A hand traced his forehead, his eyebrows, his cheeks, as if to commit the entirety of the moment to memory.

"You have no idea," Sherlock murmured. "No idea how extraordinary you are John."

Then he hitched his breath and John could feel everything tense.

"I-" Whatever Sherlock had been about to say was washed away with his orgasm.

* * *

It was comfortable, resting his head on Sherlock's thigh. God knew Sherlock's hips would probably jab him in the eye if he tried it with them.

Under him Sherlock was quiet. His mind was clearly focussed on something else.

"It's been a while," Sherlock murmured suddenly. "Since you last did that."

"Is this your attempt at telling me it was shite?" John asked, too comfortable to move to glare.

"No. Your sudden and continuous improvement was simply concurrent with someone remembering a skill."

"Or getting to know a new partner," John added.

Sherlock hummed t that. "I was right though," he said decisively. "You tensed when I asked."

"Yeah," John shifted a little.

"How long?"

"Four, five years?" John squinted as he tried to remember. A stupid fumble in the back of the barracks before he had been made Captain.

"A relationship?"

John looked up at him.

"You know mine," Sherlock lowered a hand to stroke at John's hair. "May I not know the same?"

Propping himself up on his elbow, John nodded. "I guess. Uh…I had a relationship with a guy at uni…well, I say relationship." John grinned. "More…mutual fun! And a few one night stands with men, just as and when really. I had a serious girlfriend for a few years when I was in my twenties so I didn't really go back to the whole gay scene properly."

That seemed to surprise Sherlock, "You seem far more at ease than one would expect from that sexual history."

"Sex is sex," John shrugged. "It's always different. What one person thinks is fantastic, another person thinks is a bit nothing-y. In most ways you always start from scratch when you have a new lover."

Sherlock looked doubtful. "Except in this case," he muttered mutinously. "We seem to be starting from a hundred yards back."

John lowered himself next to Sherlock so that their heads were level. "Tell me what you've learned so far," he said.

The joy of a deduction made Sherlock stretch languidly. "You're very keen on equality. You say it was a number of years between you're last encounter with a man so one can assume that you refused to do so when you were of a higher rank than those you were attracted to. The higher you were, the more limited your choice became."

John nodded, smiling.

"You enjoyed performing fellatio. You liked my reactions. You have not asked for reciprocation because you knew I didn't want to and that is…" Sherlock shook his head with that same look of wonder. "You only enjoy sex when there is mutual pleasure."

So far so goo-

"You had expectations of me when you first kissed me. You waited to see what I would do next, you have been very careful to not let me do what I want without regard to you. You enjoy taking care of a partner but equally part of you now wants someone to take care of you too. You are aware of this subconsciously and are hyper sensitive to our sexual acts because of it."

Whoa. What?

John sat up. "I…what do you mean 'hyper sensitive'?"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "You're hardly helping your case by over-reacting."

Fair point. Seconds from sulking, John settled back down.

"You do not put yourself first naturally. You are aware of this and you have either seen or experienced how destructive it can be," Sherlock tilted his head, then nodded to himself. "Witnessed," he decided. "You saw someone bleed themselves dry for another and have their relationship fall apart because of it."

Clara.

John cleared his throat and just nodded.

"You have mechanisms in place to avoid that. Good ones that have clearly been developed by years of practise. But you want to relax those now. To have someone understand and help with that." Sherlock sighed. "With all respect John, are you sure this is the relationship that will do that?"

"Sherlock," John patted his thigh, "With all the fondness in the world. Piss right off with that one."

Something spasmed across Sherlock's face. "Fondness?" he repeated, frowning.

"Mm," John nodded.

Sherlock sat up so suddenly that John thought something might snap.

"You okay?"

"Fondness," Sherlock turned to him. "That isn't the saying John. That's…"

Then he trailed off, eyes growing wide.

Shit.

Sherlock was frozen, exuding the air of a deer that was startled and about to dart away. He looked completely unsure what to do with the information.

John glared up at the ceiling. "Kindly allow me the courtesy of being able to say the words next time when I want to."

"The words?" Sherlock breathed. "You haven't said them…why haven't you said them?"

The fact that he sounded as if he was asking himself that question did not help John. Instead, he shook his head and rolled out of the bed.

"John?" Sherlock sounded startled. "What…why…you're upset?"

"Yep," John said, grabbing at a pair of jeans.

"I…I don't…isn't that usually a good thing in a relationship?" Sherlock asked, crawling up the bed to watch John over the footboard.

John yanked the nearest t-shirt over his head and started hunting for a jumper. "Usually," he muttered.

Sherlock buried his head in his hands and shook it. "You are being utterly illogical about this," Sherlock complained, raising his head. "I cannot even begin to fathom your motives."

"My motives?" John stopped what he was doing to stare incredulously at the naked man on his bed. "I should damn well be allowed to say 'I love you' when I choose to. And now you've said it for me, you're not going to handle it well and-"

"I'm not going to handle it well?" Sherlock sat up. "I'm not the one stomping off."

"It's going to add to things," John pointed at him. "The last person you were in love with used that against you-"

Something furiously ugly shone on Sherlock's face as he sat back on his heels. "I see. So you feel it should have been your choice of when to say 'I love you' but you decided to choose for me when I was allowed to hear it." He clicked his tongue, "When what? You deemed me to no longer be too fragile to hear it?"

"What am I fucking meant to do?" John asked furiously. "I show you affection, it reminds you of him, I show you desperation, it reminds you of him. I back off, speed up. I don't know how to do this," he almost shouted. "I'm not you. I can't do it right the first time. Or even the fifth time apparently. Everything I do seem to force you into dealing with it in some way and I didn't want to have my declaration of love fall into the same category." He kicked at something on the floor. "I was meant to tell you when I got it right."

Sherlock's face, furious at the start, paled and he just stared, and then closed his eyes.

"I didn't…" John faltered and stared at the floor. "That didn't come out…I'm not blaming you. I just…I wanted it to be right. I wanted it to be said and have you be happy about it, not..." he shrugged, not even sure what to say anymore. Every word seemed to be making it worse.

A hand reached out for his and pulled him close. Startled, John looked at Sherlock.

"Get it right?" Sherlock seemed stunned. "John…you have no idea how right you get it."

"No," John shook his head. "I have a temper, I get short and frustrated-"

"Would you like to compare lists of flaws?" Sherlock asked, still tugging him closer.

"It'd be closer than you think it would."

"No," Sherlock said firmly, "It would not."

"I push you," John shook his head. "In this, I push-"

"It's been over a decade John, exactly how slow do you think I am?" Sherlock snapped. When John didn't smile, Sherlock seemed to change tact. "Do you have any idea how insulting it is to be treated like a damsel, to have you feel as if the entirety of this relationship hinges solely on you and your actions? I choose this because…" Sherlock blinked, as if stunned. "Because it's worth it," he breathed.

"Worth it?" John repeated blankly. "I don't-"

"One day," Sherlock pulled at him until John was flush against the footboard. "One day you and I will have a blazing row and we will fuck." He smiled. "We will be rough and desperate and neither of us will hesitate. And then, afterwards you'll try to make tea and I'll complain an experiment was knocked over. And we will have a smaller spat. And it won't be faked or contrived or…" Sherlock reached up for him. "Unequal. And that John is why this pushing is worth it. That is what I want."

John looked away, not entirely sure if he agreed with that.

"Tell me," Sherlock ordered.

Slowly John looked back at him. Sherlock was sitting with an odd amount of imperiousness for someone naked and on their knees with a sheet twisted around his legs. "I…"

What was the point of holding onto it?

"I love you," John said with a sigh.

Sherlock nodded. "You are an idiot John. Do you honestly believe that I would push through all this, risk this again for someone I didn't love?"

That startled him. John gaped and then looked around, as if expecting hidden cameras or something.

"It appears I have been somewhat remiss," Sherlock tugged at him again.

"I can't walk through wood Sherlock." John complained when his leg was pressed against the footboard.

"If only you could go round or climb," Sherlock said pointedly.

John, dazed, walked around and sat gingerly on the bed. "I…why have you been remiss then?"

Sherlock reached out finger to John's arm. "I thought you'd felt it," he confessed. "You seemed to be following the letters."

Huh? What-

Then John remembered, the letters Sherlock had drawn on his back when he had given him the massage.

"May," Sherlock said, his fingers tracing the letters as he said the words. "I take care of you too?" He shifted. "You don't respond well to it at all. I thought…you stiffened. I thought it would be a topic we could revisit later."

"I realised they were letters," John mumbled. "I was trying to follow it and talk to you."

"You are intelligent enough to do both," Sherlock complained. "Pay attention next time."

John nodded, dazed.

"Tell me," Sherlock shifted closer. "What upsets you about us?"

"Jesus-" John made to dart away.

"Stop putting on this perfect, understandable act. It's as fake as his," Sherlock gripped John's wrist in an iron hold. "I am not fragile."

John stared at the wall, warring within himself. "I…I can't show you affection when we are in bed together," he said hesitantly. "I hate that it makes you stiffen. I hate that he used that against you and I hate that I can't stop myself from wanting to still do it."

"Affection?"

John nodded.

"Such as?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Touching your hair, just to stroke it and soothe you, telling you how great you are, how unbelievable it is that I'm the one that gets to share this with you. Kissing you hello because I'm just happy to see you. Letting the people we work with know how lucky I am to have you at the moment-

"Are you planning on leaving me?" Sherlock almost looked amused. "I slightly object to 'at the moment'."

John smiled weakly, a forced expression.

"Stop," Sherlock breathed. "Don't lie to me."

"I…I'm waiting for the day I fuck up and do something unforgiveable," Jesus he sounded pathetic. But he was almost expecting it now. The further they went with this, the deeper the abuse seemed to be and the more John worried he was hindering, not helping.

"Mycroft…he said I was like him."

Sherlock went rigid in fury. "He said what?"

"That you would find it the hardest to trust me because Garret based his 'act' on something that is far too close to me."

Sherlock blinked twice, then laughed. A full, disbelieving laugh.

"You don't agree-"

"Oh for the love of-" Sherlock rubbed at his forehead. "If I were twenty years old we would have issues. But…he painted himself to be as moral as you, yet there is no way on God's green earth you would have an affair with your wife's nephew while still married to said wife. There's no way you would invite people into watch you fuck the nephew. You don't share, you dislike pain. You are far too self-sacrificing and far too kind to be selfish in bed. Do you have any idea the row we would have had and the things Garret would have stooped to by now because I hadn't returned the sexual favour?"

"But you're afraid-"

Sherlock's face darkened at that word, but he seemed to push by it. "I have watched you for weeks cataloguing the differences. Was I afraid tonight?"

"You asked-"

"Habit," Sherlock dismissed. "You always think I'm so much slower than I am. I may have been hesitant, and wanting to watch but I was not afraid."

"So...that's it? We're fine"? John asked doubtfully.

"No," Sherlock sighed. "I…I imagine we will have issues along the way. Memories, habits again. But I have satisfied myself that you are not him. You are…" Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft may be vaguely touching on a pertinent idea that may have merit-"

"Are you trying to say Mycroft was right?" John asked, feeling his lips twitch in amusement.

"No." Sherlock shifted, "Merely that I fell in love with an illusion the first time. And now I have the real thing."

John sighed and leaned forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. "I do love you," he said, far fiercer than his earlier attempt. "More than anything in this world."

Sherlock breathed out and nodded. He tugged unhappily at John's top and in the end John laughed and stripped off.

* * *

Later, curled up against each other, Sherlock nuzzled at John's cheek.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"I want to…say…" Sherlock shifted against him. "It sounds ridiculous," he complained. "But I think you will appreciate it."

John wanted to turn, but instead he just squeezed his hand. "Okay…"

"I…you have my fully informed consent."

Jesus, now he was going to cry like a baby! John steeled himself and nodded, "Thank you."

"Quite all right."


End file.
